Breaking Heaven
by Simply Abbey
Summary: You're not supposed to fall in love with your patients. Especially when they're a member of the notorious gang, the Death Eaters. But Hermione is about to find out she has a lot more in common with Draco Malfoy than she wants to admit. And he's about to destroy her life in the most delicious way.
1. Chapter 1

Breaking Heaven

Chapter 1

The air is thick with heat and a mist of sweat that clings to my skin like a glove, coating me and making me feel heavy and slothful as I swirl my drink with the delicate black straw while observing the other patrons in the bar. I can feel my hair, a wild mane of brunette curls on a good day, growing with the humidity that seems to encompass the booth I've secluded myself in. I'm content to let my companions hog the spotlight and energy for themselves as they burn off their anxieties and excitements from the work week. Inclined to remain rooted to the spot, I let the world race by in a blur of color and noise and just let my thoughts come to a grinding halt to stop the fracturing of my mind at the utter humiliation of the week.

I arrived here hours ago with a group of about ten of my friends. They indulged me for a while by hanging out with me in the extra large U-shaped booth. They'd laughed and carried on until the food service ended and the lights dropped, signaling a shift in the night from dinner-time merriment to rowdy fun. It didn't take long before they'd then quickly vacated to go off and hit up the bar. They flirt with the new patrons arriving for the night scene, and some have gone to dance on the small floor the bar offers. They'd tried, for a short time, to entice me out of the booth to join them. But when a few minutes of trying didn't work they'd eventually left me here to mope in seclusion.

I'm not usually the type of mope about in public. Hermione Granger does not present any image less than that of a professional, composed woman who has her shit decidedly in order. I've always been the voice of reason within my group of friends, many of whom I've known since secondary school. So my decidedly grumpy demeanor tonight is something they're not sure how to handle, so they're leaving me to it. I'm not sure if I'm grateful, or annoyed as hell.

A flash of platinum blonde hair catches my eye, causing my heart to leap into my throat and my fingers to instinctually clutch the cup in my grasp. I've been on edge all day, wondering if he would make good on the promise he'd made just a few days ago, the last time I'd seen him. With each flash of blonde hair out of the corner of my eye, my mind instantly goes into defense mode. I've been slow around each corner, sure he'll be around one of them. But a moment later the head of hair shifts, revealing a pretty girl wearing far too much eye makeup. My shoulders relax, the tension draining out as quickly as it had arrived. I hastily bring the glass to my lips, pulling in a large swallow of the burning, acidic drink that had matched my mood perfectly when we'd arrived. I am on edge and utterly broken, never before feeling as lost and uncertain as today.

" _We can't excuse this critical lapse in judgement. Your actions, or lack thereof, have resulted in the endangerment of the entire city. You failed to intervene at the most important moment presented to you. We have no choice, I'm afraid, but to place you on administrative leave until the board can further review the case files and determine a more permanent course of action."_

Bile rises in my throat again at just the memory of the incredibly uncomfortable, humiliating meeting with the dean. _Critical lapse in judgement_. _Failed to intervene_. I'd never in my wildest dreams believed the comments of a supposedly ill man were anything more than his deepest wishes, that I needed to actually warn people about what he'd promised. I thought it was just the wishful thinking of a man angry at the one person he thought he could trust. I'd felt so guilty, sick to my stomach for the rest of the day for the abandonment he surely believed had taken place. I'd been ill afterward, unsure if I'd just saved myself or damned us both. I had been a fool. He'd played me well. Terrifyingly well. And as a result I'm nearly out of a job and, as much as I will never admit it to a soul, frightened within an inch of my life.

 _"You're killing yourself," he growls. "You'll never make it out of that life alive."_

 _"I'm afraid my life is no longer your concern."_

 _"I'll find you, Granger. And when I do, your life as you know it is over."_

Somehow, over all the music and general cacophony of the evening crowd, I hear a barking laugh that shoots daggers of guilt and pain through my heart. I glance across the room toward where some of my friends are converged on a small dance floor to see a head of red hair thrown back in laughter, taller than almost everyone in the room. Even if his hair didn't blaze despite the dim light, and even if he didn't stand so tall to everyone, I'd be able to pick him out of any crowd. He's allowed me that. To understand and know him so deeply I can pick out his soul amid a sea of thousands. And I've been locked up inside my heart and lying to him for months in thanks for the openness he shares with me.

"You can't just sit here all night, you know."

I start, turning toward the voice that's torn me from my musing. Brilliant green eyes flash behind glasses slightly fogged from the room's atmosphere as they survey me worriedly. His jet black hair, already disheveled from a night out, is made worse when he run his fingers through the damp locks to coax away sweat from his forehead.

"Because you make being out there look like so much fun," I tease half-heartedly, taking in the jogger jacket thrown over his shoulder and the trace amounts of dampness on his shirt showing the evidence of dancing in a warm room. "I've had a long day, Harry. All I want to do is sit here and have a nice, relaxing drink in a room loud enough where I can't hear myself think."

Harry Potter is one the very few people in the world that I know I truly love beyond a shadow of a doubt. We'd met when I transferred to his school at the start of secondary school following one of the most traumatic periods of my life. While he'd already made several friends during primary school, I arrived knowing no one. I was that weird new girl in school with a chip on her shoulder, and smack dab in the most awkward years of my life. Big, bushy, dull brown hair, crooked front teeth adorned with brand new braces, and more than a little skinny. To make matters worse, I'd quickly caused problems for myself by making it obvious I was highly intelligent for my age. Some teachers were thrilled with my thirst for knowledge, while others found me tedious. But _every_ student found me insufferable. Including Harry and his best friend, Ron Weasley. But when they'd overheard a group of girls planning to ambush me in the bathroom they intervened just before the girls had managed to harm me and we'd developed a close friendship after that had endured over 15 years. It was the first time someone had shown an interest in my well being in a long time, and I cannot begin to describe the feeling it gave me beyond saying it felt like my heart caught its first real breath of fresh air. They became my protectors and I their guide through the more logical components of life...like school essays. We're more than friends. We're family.

Our bond has been tested over the years, particularly over the last six as Harry and Ron's work in the Organized Crime division of the UK's National Crime Agency has grown. They've been taking down several large pockets of gang groups distributing enormous quantities of drugs into the metropolis. Harry is particularly driven to success by the death of his parents. They were murdered on orders from a man known as Lord Voldemort. A man named Tom Riddle had dubbed himself 'Lord Voldemort' when he started his gang known as the Death Eaters. Harry's parents were involved in undercover work to bring down Tom and his Death Eaters. They had been ransacking London, tearing the city apart with drugs and violence when Harry's parents and fellow officers had successfully infiltrated the ranks of the Death Eaters, even convincing several of them to turn against Tom.

Tom got wind and went into hiding, but not before he got word of the hit out. Harry's parents had their identity compromised by another investigator who had been paid off by Tom. They were murdered the same night all traces of Tom disappeared.

Harry learned the story at the tender age of eleven from his godfather, Sirius. Sirius had been best mates with Harry's parents. They'd assigned Sirius the duty of godfather when Harry was born, knowing how dangerous the line of work was. Harry was forced to live with his horrible aunt and uncle when his parent's will couldn't be located. It wasn't long after Sirius finally got custody of Harry after years of trials and appeals that he told Harry the full story of his parents death. Once Harry learned the truth, he set his sights on revenge. While Tom's absence has made the Death Eaters quiet, a nuisance more than an outright problem, Harry hasn't ever stopped looking for signs of Tom.

Pursuing a career in law enforcement became personal to him, and drove him all the way to the top. Ron's parents had also worked for the NCA, but they were involved more in strategy plans rather than in actual field work. Ron was there the day Harry found out what happened to his parents, and promised to help Harry however he could. He's been by Harry's side the entire time. It's made them the top investigative officers within the Organized Crime division, something I was proud to help them achieve.

My own primary field of work is psychiatry, specifically for the government's high security psychiatric facility, Brockington Manor. My specialty is the criminally insane and disturbed. When I'm available and the need is present, I work as a consultant for the NCA. My main duty is to analyze the behavior of criminals to determine their motives and weaknesses, or really any information to help other intelligence officers. Because of the nature of their job and mine, Harry, Ron, and myself frequently work together on cases. Particularly when one of their undercover operatives reports in and they need information and conversations analyzed, as well as providing feedback to operatives on how they should behave and response is a variety of situations they may be faced with.

The Death Eaters have been active again for the last year, causing Harry and Ron to work extra hours, and more than once things have gotten sticky when several of their operatives' identities were almost compromised. And just last night there was a breakout from Brockington Manor, my place of employment. Included in the list of missing convicts are three Death Eaters Harry and Ron have worked hard to put away. Its part of the reason we're out tonight. Harry and Ron are waiting for information from the investigation Brockington is currently investigating. Rather than pacing the floor at home, they suggested we go out under the pretense of trying to cheer me up.

Harry sighs, dropping into the booth next to me and picking up his beer to tip the bottle back for a swig before saying, "I know this is hard for you, Hermione. Those gits at Brockington are just embarrassed and looking for a scapegoat. Once they do a formal review you know they'll have to admit you didn't do anything wrong. There was no way you could have known what he was planning. Just enjoy your vacation and relax a little bit." He turns and looks back at our group of friends before saying, "Ron's a shit dancer without you."

Ron. My heart seizes again. My incredibly patient, innocent, ignorant Fiancé. I glance toward him again, finding him easily enough with his splash of red hair, seeing he is indeed floundering without my assistance. While we are by no means the perfect dancing duo, I agree we indeed do better when together. It is the way our relationship generally works.

Ron and I had fought most of secondary school, our teenage personalities never quite falling into sync. Whenever there were fights they were always between me and Harry or me and Ron. The boys almost never fought with each other, but they frequently butted heads with me over perceived slights or arguments about intentions to break rules, something they did often. But Ron and I especially were at odds, his easy-going, joking nature something that rubbed my logical mind so strongly I'm surprised we didn't kill each other through school. That was, until something changed at about fifteen years old, when I became more aware of the attractive qualities my friend possessed. His fierce protectiveness of his family, as well as Harry and myself. And the compassion towards smaller, more vulnerable creatures that a man develops with maturity. He'd often made fun of me for volunteering at our local animal shelter, and my insistence on becoming a vegetarian. But one day, he offered to come with me to the shelter to help the staff with their daily cleaning. And the next night, when the three of us had been hanging out after school, he'd told me he'd found a restaurant with vegetarian dishes we should all hit up so I could eat a real meal when we ate out for once. And finally, something snapped into place at the end of secondary school, when suddenly our years of bickering just didn't seem to make sense anymore as we entered the adult world. We'd begun dating intensely, with a complete and utter adoration for each other that comes after years of denying you feel anything at all.

"I'm not really in the mood, Harry," I say in a decidedly dejected tone, turning back to swirl my drink again. "I don't want to weigh everyone down tonight, but I can't bare to be home alone. And I'm trying to put on a brave face for Ron. So go, have fun. I'm okay, I promise." I say the last part with a small smile, lifting my glass in a half-hearted cheering gesture before bringing it to my lips for another solid swallow.

"Oi," comes a shout, "Harry, we've got to go!"

Glancing up, I see Ron shoving his way through the crowd, oblivious to the glares he receives from the other patrons as he jostles their arms and, by extension, spilling their drinks. He arrives to our booth a moment later, mopping back his sweaty red hair in a gesture remarkably similar to the one Harry has just performed.

"McGonagall called, we have an emergency briefing. Now."

Harry curses, turning his wrist to glance at the watch he never takes off, a gift from his godfather after graduation. "She knows it's almost midnight on a Saturday, right? I didn't think she'd call til morning."

Ron nods, rolling his eyes. "Her exact message was, 'I don't care how sloshed you are. 911.'"

Harry curses again, pulling his jacket off his shoulder and shoving an arm in. "I'll grab Ginny."

At that exact moment, a pretty little redhead with fierce features and kind brown eyes pops up beside him, putting a hand on his elbow. Harry's fiancée, Ginny. "No need," she yells, smiling broadly. "Ron already told me. Ain't no rest for the wicked?"

Harry gives her a broad smile before bending to plant a kiss on her cheek, a sweet gesture between two people who know each other better than they know themselves. "Isn't it the truth?"

Ron turns blue eyes to me, apology written all over his face. "I'm sorry," he says, sliding into the booth beside me. "I know this is the worst night for this all to happen."

I shrug, shaking my glass slightly to make the ice inside tinkle as I look away from Ginny and Harry, their normally sweet devotion too much for me lately. A reminder of the person I haven't been in months. "It's alright, I'm not much fun tonight anyway,"

Harry stops pulling on his jacket to give me a confused look. "Aren't you coming?"

I shook my head. "No," I say, slamming the glass down hard on the table. "McGonagall sent me an official email this morning. My consultation services are suspended until Brockington's investigation is done."

Minerva McGonagall is the Director of the Organized Crime department. She's Harry and Ron's boss, and the person I report to for my consultation services with the NCA. She's a fierce woman, and a force to be reckoned with. Being on her bad side is a place no one ever wants to be. The email from her this morning cut even deeper than my suspension from Brockington Manor.

Harry's throat bobs as he swallows all the things he wants to say as he shoves his second arm through his jacket. "I didn't know that. We'll talk to her."

Ron nods in agreement, leaning over to press a kiss to my neck as he reaches for his jacket. "I'm not sure what all this will entail, love." He leans back with his worn denim jacket firmly in his fist to look me square in the eyes before asking, "Do you want us to run you two girls home before we head there?"

"Of course not," Ginny says quickly, pulling Ron from the booth by his arm. "We're not done. The night is still young!" Once she's pulled Ron out of the way she slides in next to me, nudging a shoulder into mine as she continues. "I called the Harpies, told them you two were bailing on us. They're at a bar on Knoxboro. We're going to meet up with them!"

I see Ron and Harry wince, expecting me to politely, but firmly, decline. While I enjoy imbibing from time to time, I am far from the party girl the Hollyhead Harpies are. The Hollyhead Harpies are a football team based in London, and they do quite well competitively. Ginny is their captain, although her antics are usually more tame than what trouble they get into in their own when she's not there to rein them in. Ginny dragged me along once for a night out, and has never successfully done so since. It just wasn't my scene. Luckily being so closely involved with a member of The NCA means she has to keep a cool head when celebrating with her teammates, so she doesn't pester me often to join. She's too busy ensuring they don't draw too much attention to themselves to make sure I'm having a good time.

But tonight, I sit up a bit straighter and I stare straight ahead, contemplating just how numbing of an experience it could be to let go and be a bit wild with my friend without the pressure of Ron and Harry constantly checking in on me. I lift my glass again quickly and tip it back smoothly, the ice clinking against my teeth unpleasantly as I finish my drink in one smooth gulp. I slam it down again and turn to Ginny, forcing a broad smile on my face as I say, "Sure, Gin. Let's go. The boys can drop us on the way."

Ginny throws her head back in a mighty laugh, grabbing her clutch from the top of the table and slinging it over her shoulder. "I'll go let the others know we're taking off. I promise I won't tell them where we're going," she says quickly at my startled expression. "No need to add to the Harpie mayhem."

She slides from the booth and quickly grabs Harry's hand as she pushes through the crowd, making her way toward the dance floor where the rest of our small group of friends are gathered laughing and joking. Harry throws a concerned look at me over his shoulder before Ginny drags him into the crowd.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Ron asks me as I slide to the edge of the booth, searching for the purse I know had been sitting on the bench beside me just a moment ago. "You don't have to indulge her just because she's my sister."

Ginny is only a year younger than us, but in the beginning of her own start in secondary school it felt like she was just a little kid. She often trailed along behind us, desperate to be included. She'd had a crush on Harry for years, but as we went through school she seemed to grow out of the all-consuming obsession most girls have with their first crush. Somehow, she became a part of our group of friends instead of the annoying kid sister. Her sense of adventure and honesty had made her a cherished friend to me, and had charmed Harry thoroughly as we'd grown. They'd started dating about a year before Ron and I had. But despite that, Ron still sees her as his annoying kid sister sometimes.

I turn to give Ron a stern look as my fingers finally connect to the small red handbag I favor for busy nights out. "I'm not indulging her, Ronald. If you really must go into work while I'm forced to stay behind, I'm going to find some way to keep myself busy."

I slide from the booth, coming to my feet directly in front of him. My breasts brush against his chest pleasantly as I do so, causing Ron to reach around and wrap his arms around my waist to pull me closer.

I continue, "It is, of course, not my usual choice of entertainment. But I'm in the mood for it tonight. And Ginny's thrilled," I say with a laugh, watching my friend come bouncing back across the floor excitedly with Harry in tow. He's got two bottles of water in one hand to assist with the sobering up he has to do on their way in to the office. I'll have to remind Ron to swing by a gas station to pick up some cheap coffee to speed the process up.

Ron turns to see his sister hustling back over in a blur of excitement, then rolls his eyes. When he's looking at me again, his eyes are concerned. "You're sure you're alright?"

I shrug. "As much as I can be, having been unofficially fired." It's almost cathartic to say the word out loud. Fired. It burns on the way past my lips, almost as if the sting of the word bubbles out as I speak it. Like sucking poison from a wound.

Ron scowls, his expression going dark. "That slimy git. I can't believe they're holding you responsible for what happened. Like you were supposed to know what goes on in that twisted little mind of his when everyone else before you couldn't."

I pull back quickly from Ron, his words somehow burning my soul. As angry as I am about the entire scenario, it still makes me uncomfortable to hear Ron talk about him that way. "It's not that simple," I say, turning away to grab my own jacket from where it is slung over the back of the booth. "There's more to it than I can tell you."

Ron's expression hardens at my words, as it has every other time the last 18 hours that he's peppered me with questions. "I don't see why that is. This is officially a public safety concern. Patient-Doctor confidentiality is moot when lives are in danger."

I snap my head around, shooting him a glare I normally reserve for fights in private. "My job is at risk enough as it is. You know I can't tell you anything until the Brockington lawyers and McGonagall's minions work out the legalities. Until a judge tells me otherwise, I'm not violating my oath."

Ron is about to make a retort I am sure I will find infuriating, but I'm saved by the arrival of Harry and Ginny. Harry, sensing the tension surrounding us, slaps Ron hard on the shoulder to draw his attention. "Should we get going before McGonagall has our balls?"

Ron snorts, rolling his shoulder to dislodge Harry's hand. "Yeah," he says roughly, reaching for my hand. "Let's drop these girls off for their fun so we can go have a cane brought against our asses."

Harry chuckles, taking Ginny's hand to lead the way out of the bar. "At least we're sloshed. Ass tearing is easier to take when you're sloshed."

" _You're_ sloshed," Ron asserts with an eye roll. "I'm the driver. I'll be completely cognizant to the whole messy affair." He pulls me after them, and I find I'm decidedly unsteady on my feet. I glance back to the booth, surprised to see several glasses with tiny black stir sticks and three strawberry stems inside each of them. I'd apparently indulged a bit more than I originally thought.

I wobble on my feet again, my heels just a touch too tall for the amount of alcohol coursing through me. Ron turns back to look at me, concern coming over his expression. "You sure you're okay to go out? We don't mind dropping you at home. It's on our way."

I shake my head, forcing my feet to cooperate as I push past him, pulling my hand free. "I'm fine," I insist. "Let's just get out of here."

I hear Ron sigh as we exit the bar, following Harry and Ginny into the crisp October air. I pull my handbag open, digging a clumsy hand inside before coming out with keys jingling between my fingers. I dangle them in the air for a moment before dropping them into Ron's waiting hand as he strides by, heading toward the sleek blue Lexus I'd bought myself as a present for my new job at Brockington. The salesman had been beside himself when I'd told him I was there to by myself a fancy car as a special treat to myself. It's the car we take out most often, as I get a small, smug thrill showing it off. I don't let Ron drive it much because frankly I look better driving it and it's _mine_ , but I'd known tonight I wouldn't be in any sort of state to drive. Ron had quickly agreed to be the designated driver when the opportunity to drive the Lexus was presented.

Harry and Ginny climb in back while I slide into the passenger seat. After clicking my seatbelt into place I instantly kick off my heels and shove my feet under the cool air kicked out of foot vents when Ron starts the car. Ginny squeals as the rush of air that had been warm when we'd exited the car suddenly shoots an icy cold breeze on our faces. I sigh, pushing my feet as close to the vent under the dash as I can to cool their inflammation before the night of dancing that lays ahead. I've worn heels more often the last few months, especially for work, but I'm still not used to being on my feet in them for multiple hours in a row.

Once we are on the road, Ron and Harry begin discussing the possible reasons for their boss to call a meeting so suddenly tonight instead of waiting til morning. I'm barely listening to their discussion, knowing for the foreseeable future I have no role to play in their investigations.

The ride to Knoxboro Way is a short one, only about a five minute drive from the bar we'd been at the majority of the night. When we pull up Harry and Ginny climb out as I slide my slightly less swollen feet back into my heels with a bit of regret before slithering out of the car. I relish the feel of the car's leather against my bare legs and bottom as my skirt flows behind me on the seat while I slide out, the leather cool enough and the drive short enough that my legs don't stick to them like they usually do. Once I am out of the car I stride around to Ron's window to lean through and give him a kiss.

"Be careful with my baby, okay?" I say, stroking the soft leather interior of the car gently through the window. "Park her in the underground lot when you get to my place so she's safe. Don't be lazy parking her in the street."

Ron chuckles, leaning toward me to plant a soft kiss on my lips. I reach up to run a finger over the smattering of freckles on his nose and cheeks as he says, "You got it, babe."

"You don't want us to pick you guys back up?" Harry asks over Ginny's shoulder as she peppers kisses along the column of his neck. "This might not take long."

"Absolutely not," Ginny mutters against his skin before pulling away. "You guys are abandoning us so this is now officially a ladies night. We'll take a cab home and see you then."

"You sure you're okay with this?" Ron asks me softly, his eyes almost pleading with me to let him take me home.

In answer, I merely roll my eyes and strut away toward the curb with Ginny following behind as Harry slides into the passenger seat I've abandoned. I don't look back, and I hear Ron squeal my tires in retaliation for the slight. I'm sure he's laughing at my outrage, and I make a mental note to leave burn marks on his _ass_ later for the mistreatment of my baby.

* * *

.x.x.x.

* * *

Hello everyone! After several, several years of a hiatus this is my first story since coming back. This story is currently halfway done, and will be updated fairly regularly.

This story WILL have mentions of past sexual abuse, although they are relatively few and far between. However it will play a role in several of the chapters. I will post warnings before each chapter, so please be sure to read any warnings before diving into the world I'm rather proud of.

Reviews are welcome, and encouraged! This story is currently unbeta'd, so any mistakes are mine.


	2. Chapter 2

Breaking Heaven

Chapter 2

 _April 9th_

 _Session 1_

The room is decidedly cold, which matches my apprehension about this appointment completely. This environment is completely different compared to where one-on-one sessions are usually conducted in comfortable yet clinical rooms with actual furniture. Despite the high security nature of Brockington Manor, there's still consideration taken for the likelihood to build relationships with patients when they are comfortable. But not here. Here a clear message is being sent to the man shackled to the cold metal table before him: You will find no respite here.

It was only this morning I was informed of my newest patient assignment, someone assigned to me specifically due to my experience with the National Crime Agency. I've been informed my patient is a man considered to be high in the Death Eaters hierarchy, one who got away with a ruling of "guilty but mentally ill" in his court hearings and was sentenced here rather than the high-security prison that was eagerly preparing a cell for him. His parents are rich thanks to their own suspected status in the Death Eater ranks, and the rumors are more than a few members of the jury had their pockets lined to rule the clearly sane man too mentally ill to be held fully accountable for his crimes.

He has already been through six doctors since his arrival here four months ago. And upon examination of his file it is clear to me that none of them made any progress in his diagnosis and treatment of any sort. Eventually I gave up reading the notes when it became clear to me that a pattern existed. This patient lures his doctors into a false diagnosis, then snaps on them so efficiently they never see it coming. It's made it impossible to diagnosis him and begin a treatment regimen that has any lasting effects. My observation: Draco Malfoy is far too smart for his own good, or the good of those around him. And I'm almost certain this man was never crazy in the first place, despite what the jury ruled and the tales he's spun.

He's not very old at all, in fact he's about my age. So I'm surprised he's already become some a prominent member of the Death Eaters. His profile states his charges are drug trafficking, assault on law enforcement, evading capture, possession of illegal firearms, and contempt of court. But I didn't need to read the profile to know that, because Harry has regaled me with the story of Draco Malfoy's capture for almost a year. It took years of investigative work for Harry and Ron to lock in on Malfoy as a member of the Death Eaters, made harder by the fact the Malfoy family is wealthy and well known in the community. While few doubted they had their hands in a few illegal ventures, no one had been able to pin them until Harry's undercover officers found Malfoy red-handed at a goods transfer. Everyone else had split, but Malfoy had attempted to stay behind to silent the officers who'd caught them. He'd almost killed one of the officers in his attempt to avoid capture, but they'd managed to subdue him.

And after months of trials, Malfoy was sentenced to Brockington in a desperate attempt to avoid the government's high security prison, Azkaban. It still grinds Harry and Ron's gears that Malfoy is here rather than in Azkaban where they think he belongs. And while the ethics of my job require I avoid drawing preconceived notions, I'm not excited to be spending time in the presence of a man I have heard nothing but horrible things about for months. And when I tried to argue this point to the dean, that I was unable to provide him impartial care, he hadn't cared. Apparently I'm his last-ditch effort to find a doctor that can make any progress with him. If I can't develop a solid relationship, diagnosis, and treatment plan they'll simply begin drugging him within an inch of his life and pawning his care off on the younger doctors as a training exercise. And it will mean Malfoy never has to answer for what he's done.

Malfoy's face is hung low so I can't see his expression, but he's far from the picture of a defeated man I'd expected when I entered the room. His hair is a brilliant platinum blonde that falls to graze his cheekbones in dry, limp clumps, a result of the standard issue shampoo the patients are provided to bathe with. He isn't a large man, in fact his frame appears to be rather lithe beneath the dark blue, long sleeved shirt and pants that all high-security patients are required to wear. But he seems to be a man of tall stature as far as I can tell while he's sitting. His shoulders are hunched in what would appear to be defeat to the casual observer but I can tell it's more in anticipation of what's to come than acceptance. He's ready for something to happen, and I find myself on edge waiting for something to happen myself.

A guard steps forward from a corner and shoves Malfoy in the shoulder with his control stick. "Yo, ferret face. There's a lady in the room, show some respect."

Malfoy's head snaps up at the word "lady" and I find myself eye-to-eye with the coldest color of grey I've ever encountered. Their color instantly fascinates me, their depths fathomless as he takes me in. There's surprise there, and curiosity. Whatever he was expecting, by his instant observations he's determined I am not it. His hair falls into his eyes as he raises his head, and he gives them a puff of air from his cracked lips in an attempt to remove them from his line of sight before giving me a small, taunting smirk. I force myself not to swallow hard, but to meet his stare evenly.

The guard, "M. Hargen" his name badge says, shoves Malfoy again, this time hard enough his shoulders move with the impact. His eyes close, grimacing against the pain. He doesn't make a sound, though, and I can tell as he rights himself that he's steeling himself to ensure he shows no such weakness again in the guard's presence. As his eyes open they flash in annoyance at me, as if he's blaming me for stealing his attentions away from his game of maintaining unaffectedness in front of his keepers.

I have always been aware of the curtness with which the guards speak to their charges. But it has never been something I've tolerated to witness and something that is immediately put to a stop when it comes to my patients. And with the history of Malfoy and his doctors I need no further roadblocks to his progress.

"That will do, Mr. Hargen," I say dismissively to the guard, who is standing threateningly at Malfoy's shoulder now. "We will call if we need assistance."

"Hermione, with all due respect, this man has almost killed people in here." Hargen's eyes are wide with surprise as they flash back and forth between the patient and myself. "Orders are guards at all times."

"It will be Dr. Granger, guard," I insist, taking care to assert myself immediately in front of both my patient and his guard. As a female doctor, no leniency can be had for a lack of respect and proper decorum. I learned early on that the only way people will respect me is if I thrust it upon them without option. "And as you can see, Mr. Malfoy is secured well to the table by the wrists and his feet are also restrained. I'm aware of the panic buttons in the room and have full confidence in the speed of your arrival should issues arise. For now," I say, moving from the door to make room for him in a show of dismissal, "your presence is not required."

Hargen stares at me for a minute, like he's waiting for my resolution to waver. It will not. I have never, in all my studies and practice in psychiatry and behavior analysis, found it beneficial in any session to have a bully guard hovering over patients. He seems to recognize this and huffs before turning away to the door. He presses the button on the underside of the door's handle to alert outside staff of the desire of an occupant to exit.

"It's your funeral, lady. He almost killed a guard just last month. It takes us 5 seconds to get in the room. He had the guy down in under three."

And with that, Hagen is gone.

"I think that might be a bit of an overstatement. It took me at least that long to rid him of his helmet."

I turn around, startled by Mr. Malfoy's sudden interest in communication. His voice is low and punching, like each word is one he selects and throws out with intent. He's smiling, which is really rather charming despite the fact there's little genuine joy behind it. His skin is a soft, pale color verging on translucent and he has a face that is pointed and angular, which I can only guess is exaggerated by a documented stubborn streak when it comes to eating the food he's offered. But his cheekbones are high and aristocratic and the jawline he bears is strong. He's attractive in a bit of an uptight manor. His demeanor matches the hints of personality I was able to glean from his file. Malfoy views himself as better than the average person, if not the majority of all people. Narcissistic and egotistical, he's aware of his affect on women and men and the status afforded to him because of it and his family's name.

Unfortunately for him, I'm not so easily won.

"Mr. Malfoy," I say, stepping closer to the table. I force myself to keep contact with those unnerving eyes as I enforce the boundaries that must be firmly laid. "Let me be very clear. I am fully aware of your history, including the security issues you posed at the start of your stay here. I'm sure you're used to using it as a method of control and fear, but I can assure you that power will be lost on me."

He cocks his head to the side, his smile dropping slightly as he takes me in. I'm standing beside the table now directly across from him, and he leans forward slightly in his seat. The prominence in his cheekbones is even more drastic now that I see it up close. "Doctor, have you read up on me?" He says it with a sly sneer, as if I'd just admitted to watching him masturbate and that I enjoyed it. He's already attempting to feel me out and look for any possible way to make me uncomfortable.

I allow myself to drop to the chair across from him, the file in my hand smacking against the cold metal table top as I do so. His eyes flicker to it with the barest hint of amusement before sliding up to capture mine again. He's taunting me now. He knows that file will hold nothing I seek.

"Just the facts," I state, sliding the file to the side as if I haven't a care in the world for it. "I'm certain you're aware of the lack of consistent diagnoses it contains?"

His smile turns malicious now as he says, "Quite."

We stare at each other for a moment, assessing the other's motives silently. I know my gender is a bit of a shock to him, and while I know I should be annoyed I can't help but find pride in being the first female doctor to be assigned to his care. I hope it will give us a unique approach to each other, one that hasn't been exploited yet.

"I have a few guidelines I would like to set in place, Mr. Malfoy," I say, sliding my tablet from my briefcase. I place it on the table before us, which he eyes suspiciously. "Nothing unreasonable, I assure you."

He hesitates for a moment before says slowly, "And what would that be, Doctor?"

I press the button the side of the tablet to bring it back from its sleep, taking my time before responding in a matter of fact tone, "Honesty."

The harsh bark of a laugh he releases startles me a bit and I find myself raising my eyes to look at him again. He's leaned back in his chair as far as the chains on his wrists will let him, his eyes guarded with bits of amusement and skepticism leaking through. "And what, dear Doctor, makes you think I'll provide that for you after reading that file? How will you ever know I'm telling you the truth?"

It's my turn to give him a wry smile now. "Mr. Malfoy," I assert, absentmindedly selecting the application icon for access to Brockington's electronic record keeping system, "I think you'll find my approach a bit...well, alternative to say the least. At least in comparison to the experiences you've had with your doctors so far. I'm not here to get rich writing a paper on your story or sell an article to the papers on the background of a Death Eater villain. I'm here to treat you. If you're not honest with me, you're frankly wasting my time and the time of all the other doctors here in the building. If at any point I feel you are wasting my time, I will remove myself from your case. And I can assure you, Mr. Malfoy, that the number of qualified psychiatrists available to you is dwindling. I'm afraid all that will be left to you is a world of sedation and nurses who wipe the drool from your chin. Only the most junior doctors eager to prove themselves will bother to even glance at you again." I raise my eyes after signing in to the application to find him staring at me with interest. "And where's the fun in that?"

"I'm not sure what you're playing at, Doctor," he says, leaning forward on the table. "I think ickle newbies are quite fun."

The way he says it sends images of a cat cornering and torturing a mouse before devouring it. I have no doubt Malfoy takes great pleasure in dismantling someone's mind, and does it with the ease with which a mechanic checks an oil level. Without hesitation and with minimal effort.

"At first," I say, sliding the tablet aside again for now. "But after a while it will become boring for you. What fun is it to play in the minds of the young and naive? Why not toy with one a bit bigger and juicer?"

He laughs fully now, his head going back to expose the long, pale column of his throat in an honest display of mirth. It shocks me a bit to hear him so delighted over my statement, but I'm careful to not let it show. It's intriguing to watch him, especially in moments like these where the air of aristocracy he carries around him falls a bit in the face of true emotion.

"This coming from the psychiatrist?" He asks, keeping his head back and resting it against the back of his chair as he slumps a bit in his seat. "That's rich."

"Your point?" I ask. I'm sure I can tell where he's going with this, but something is clearer to me the longer I talk. I will learn far more about Mr. Malfoy by hearing his interpretations of my own personality than having him divulge his own.

"I thought doctors were supposed to treat everyone without judgement," he says with a sneer, lifting his head to stare right back at me again. "Refusing to treat a Death Eater with an addled mind might give some the impression you're not willing to follow your oath, Doctor."

"No one will begrudge this facility for determining that there is little to be done. Your file alone will show the inability to treat one with a personality such as the one you've shown in prior sessions. You will receive all the care you require, Malfoy, but I'm afraid there comes a point when the time of prominent doctors is better spent with patients who are treatable in one-on-one sessions."

His sneer slips into a full frown at my words, his eyes shifting from the edge of amusement and boredom into distaste and curiosity. Encouraged, I press on.

"I think you'll find I'm quite intelligent, Mr. Malfoy. I think, if we can maintain honesty in our conversations, we'll find ourselves both mentally stimulated at the end of each of our session."

He scoffs, leaning forward to rest his elbows back on the table in front of him. His hair falls into his eyes again as he says, "If you last that long."

I'm not surprised by this statement, but it still annoys me. I lean back now, a bit uncomfortable to be so close to him despite his restraints. I try to mask my retreat by crossing my arms and giving him a contemptuous look. "Try me."

He studies me for a moment, his grey eyes sliding over what feels like every inch of my skin. While I feel discomfort rise up at his examination, a bit of excitement oozes up as well at the knowledge of such a dangerous man appraising me. It starts to sink in that I'm sitting across from a Death Eater, a murderer. And yet I'm practically challenging him to show me he's capable of getting the upper hand on me. His eyes are unreadable as he finally says, "Ok. But I have conditions of my own."

Electricity zips up my spine at his acquiesce. That was far easier than I expected, and I'm prepared for the strings to come flying out and attaching themselves all over my frame. It takes everything I have in me to keep my breathing steady and my tone flat as I say, "Name them."

"You want honesty?" he asks. "Fine. I'll give you honesty. But in return, I want you to promise it to me yourself. No lies, Doctor Granger. I'll know if you do, just as well as you'll know if I do the same."

I find myself leaning forward without having to give the command to my body, intrigued by this surprising turn of events. "I can promise you full honesty, Mr. Malfoy. As a way to cover our bases, though, I want to make one adjustment to the rule. I won't lie to you, but the nature of my job forbids me from revealing certain pieces of information. I won't lie, but I can't promise to tell you all that you ask of me."

Malfoy tips his head to the side, letting my words settle before he speaks again. When he does his tone is low and gritty. "Fine. But I want to same. If I CAN'T tell you it, you can't make me."

"Agreed," I promise. "I won't force you to tell me something if you can't be honest. But I will ask it again at some point. Until I'm satisfied one way or another."

"Six months," Malfoy says suddenly. He's leaning forward more, his hands bracing on the table as he drives those cold grey eyes right into my own. His face is dead serious, his left eyebrow slightly raised as he studies me.

"Six months?"

He nods. "My other condition. You stay on as my doctor for six months. No matter what."

I'm startled by this demand. I can't help but lean forward further, intrigued further by his ability to hold a unique detachment from the situation and air of haughtiness despite his current situation and the restraints designed to hold him now. His eyebrow drops to meet the other one in a furrow as he awaits my response.

"I'll agree, as long as the other terms we've laid out are being honored," I finally say, the words almost spilling over my lips as my mouth races ahead of my brain.

Malfoy nods, and a bit of tension leaves his shoulders as he leans back in his chair again. He raises his arms as if to cross them, realizes the chains at his wrists restrict that movement, then resigns himself to dropping his hands back to the table. "We have an understanding then."

This is the most relaxed I've seen him since I walked into this room. It's obvious he lives on structure and rules of behavior as a part of his environment. It should be no surprise to me, I'm sure, that this agreement between us should give him a sense of comfort. I make a mental note of this, hoping it will give me a platform on which to build in future sessions.

"I can see what you're doing, Doctor," he says with a smirk. "It really is one of the most irritating traits of your kind."

A small huff leaves my lips at his words, and I reach back over to the tablet I'd set aside earlier. "Am into assume that's a reference to my gender?"

His teeth flash in a smile that's almost teasing as he says, "As vexing as I find females, I'm referring to your profession. Although as a woman in the medical field I'm sure you're especially proficient at reading so far into a simple conversation that heads spin every time you deign someone worthy of speaking to. Your boyfriend must be thrilled."

"Care to explain your interest in my private life, Mr. Malfoy? It really is quite telling." There really is no point in beating around the bush with this man. He'll know when I'm psychoanalyzing him and I can already tell he'll appreciate my direct approach far more than any attempt to be coy. He's far too intelligent to not know when it's happening, and proud enough to be offended by it.

He reaches a shackled wrist up to run it through his hair, forced to lean forward slightly to achieve the movement. "I'm just stating the obvious, Doctor. You're not overly attractive by any means, but one would never go so far as to say you're hideous. I'm sure you're even quite pretty when you take care of that terrible mass of hair on your head."

My hand flies up immediately to pat at my hair, to which he gives a knowing smile. I'm annoyed by my impulsive reaction and his smile. Even more so because I DID try to calm it this morning.

"And I've clearly hit a nerve."

"It's not a hard one to locate," I say simply. "While I am a professional, I am also a woman. We can only hear insults so many times before it begins to sting."

"It's not an insult," he says lazily. "It's a statement of an unavoidable fact. You have a mop on your head. I'm sure there's a man who finds it attractive to a degree, or at least not repulsive enough to overrule your overall appeal."

I can't help but laugh at the way he analyzes the level of my sex appeal so calmly, matter of fact actually. Intelligent Death Eater or not, my patient is clearly still in tune with his testosterone. "And you deduced there must be someone who made that decision?"

"Clearly," he says, leaning back again to survey me. "You carry the confidence of a woman who knows she has a man waiting for you at home."

"You're developing this assumption, Mr. Malfoy," I say with a snap, "based on the idea that my confidence is rooted in my relationship."

I tell myself not to be offended. As a female psychiatrist working often with male patients, it's not the first time someone had overstepped the unspoken line between patient and doctor. Sometimes it's a genuine interest in flirting, other times it's a technique to shift the focus away from them. Either way, it's always telling.

"It's the basis of confident of all women," he says, examining a nail under the room's stark fluorescents while lifting his lip slightly in disgust. "Whether you want to admit it or not."

"Says the man," I say, rolling my eyes. "Honestly Mr. Malfoy, I thought you were intelligent. But you clearly are just as blind to the power of women as every other man in the world." I know I'm pressing here. But it's a risk I'm willing to take. Best to test his tolerance now.

"Women like you like to pretend that they're something special. Like you have the ability to defy all of the prejudices about women. They exist for a reason, because they are an overarching idea that applies to all women in some shape, form or another. I am surprised that as a psychiatrist you still believe yourself to be an individual." He lifts his eyes to me now, those sharp grey eyes piercing into me as he surveys me again. "Doesn't the study of the human mind tell us that neither one of us are as unique as we believe?"

"I believe you have been mislead, Mr. Malfoy," I say, leaning back in my chair and bringing the tablet to my lap. His interest in experiences is telling. I swipe across the screen, pulling up a list of family members. Only son to Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Still alive, still married...but no other history has been noted. Interesting. "While to a certain extent it is true that our past experiences will impact us in ways that can be predicted, we are all the product of unique experiences. And as much as it has tried to be proven in the past, it has been shown that two humans who experienced the exact same sequence of events can still come out with entirely different impacts from the experience."

Out of the top of my eye I can see he smirks at me, and the flash of his teeth are a brilliant white as he says, "And so here we are, two people with very fucked up pasts sitting on opposite sides of a table."

My head snaps up from the tablet at his words. He looks triumphant, as if he's just figured something out. I run the last few exchanges over in my head, trying to figure out what he could possibly have gleaned from them.

"I'm sorry?" I ask. "I'm not sure what you're insinuating, Mr. Malfoy."

His eyes grow cold as he shifts forward and gently says, "You sit there and act like you're better than me. Like you're this perfect little doctor who's going to help me. But I can tell, you're just as dark on the inside as I am."

I can't help it. It's incredibly unprofessional of me. And unprofessional isn't something I do as a rule. But I snort, a rather rude sound that seems to catch him off guard. He falls back in his chair with a huff.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy," I say, shaking my head. "I'm afraid you should leave the psychoanalysis to the professionals."

Oh. He did NOT like that. His eyes narrow as he leans forward, pressing his fingertips to the table as he does so. The cuffs and chains on his wrists clatter noticeably as he does so, echoing in the otherwise quiet, empty room.

"You just wait, Doctor," he says with a sneer. "You have no idea how twisted your mind will be when we're done here."

And that was the last thing he said for the rest of our session. He shut down, refusing to say another word. After a few minutes of pressing him I gave up, hitting the button for the guards to open the door probably harder than was necessary in a fit of mild frustration. I didn't look back, just walked right out the door. Reviewing the tapes later, it was obvious he felt like he'd achieved a small victory in frustrating me while refusing to answer my questions. While he didn't outright violate our agreement, he'd skirted the boundaries. And it became very obvious Mr. Malfoy was going to be a very different kind of patient.

* * *

.x.x.x.

* * *

Hello everyone! I want it to be known I'm 100% unfamiliar with the psychiatric world. But I wanted to present this well, so I've been doing a lot of research as I go along. If I've made any blinding errors, please let me know so I can correct them! I'm also basing this on my knowledge of the US courts systems although I've looked into the UK systems as well and try to make any changes as needed. Although my from understanding, the UK and US judicial systems are similar for such high level offenses.

Let me know what you think. Cheers!


	3. Chapter 3

Breaking Heaven

Chapter 3

 _October 5th_

 _After Brockington_

Once the boys are gone Ginny whips her cell phone out, selecting a contact and pressing the device to her face as we approach the bar entrance.

"We're here," she says, placing a hand on the door to press it open. "Where should we look for you?"

I nearly slam into Ginny's back when she suddenly stops walking, listening intently to whoever is on the other end of the line. She then turns around, an irritated look on her face as she sighs and says, "Fine. We'll meet you there. Let me know next time, yeah? You owe me cab fare."

Someone is still responding when Ginny ends the call. She then quickly summons another application on her phone and types furiously.

"What's going on?" I ask, realizing Ginny is trying to summon a cab through an application on her phone. "I thought we were meeting the Harpies."

"We are," she huffs, tapping the phone one last time with an air of finality before sliding it back into her clutch. "Unfortunately, the slags decided to move on to more exciting territory. I swear those girls are all a bunch of flighty creatures, I tell them all the time they're true to our team name. If they weren't so good at ball I'd have killed them by now."

"So," I ask with a chuckle, "where are we going?"

Ginny looks a bit sheepish as she says, "The Boneyard."

I blanch at Ginny's words, for more reasons than one. The Boneyard is a large club in the ritzy part of town popular with the more financially blessed residents who need a bit of excitement from time to time. It's exactly the kind of place I can see the Harpies adoring, and the last place I want to spend my night. And, if rumor and suspicion are to be believed, it is often frequented by members of the Death Eaters, if not even partially funded by their less than legal ventures.

"Ginny…," I say slowly, my concern growing. This was a very, very bad time in my career to go stumbling into an establishment that Death Eaters frequent. "I don't know that—

"I know," Ginny says suddenly, cutting me off. "I know it isn't your scene. But it will be fun. I've gone with the rest of the Harpies before, it was a good time. And they know us there, so we get all the goodies. A table, with bottle service. No wait, no fuss."

When I try to protest again I'm cut off once more.

"Look, I know you're worried about your job," she says with a sigh, reaching to squeeze my hand encouragingly. "I know going out and clubbing doesn't seem an appropriate response to being suspended to you. But fuck them, okay? Fuck them and their miserable little lives where they have to blame anyone but themselves. Including the one person who was trying to help. It's not your fault it happened. It's not like you handed them the blueprints and the guns. They tricked you, just like they tricked every other person in that god forsaken place. Okay? So...just...let's go burn off some steam."

I'm surprised by Ginny's proclamation. While Ginny is admittedly beautiful and feminine in her way, she is most decidedly a tomboy. She's not one for long, emotional speeches in the way many women can be. She's far more like a man in that her idea of pep talks are usually kept to a swift smack on the back and the instance that the woeful person suck it up and grow a pair.

After everything that has happened today and all that will surely but happen over the next several days, I'm not sure I want to press this particular beast any harder. I know that, with all the suspicion surrounding me, hanging out in an area frequented by criminals isn't a good idea. But it isn't common knowledge that Boneyard is Death Eater territory, and there is no way Ginny was privy to that knowledge. Ron and Harry have been very careful over the last few years to keep her as far out of things as possible. So if Ginny could say it was her idea, certainly….

"Alright," I say, dropping my shoulders. "Fine. Just for a few drinks, then we're out."

* * *

I spend most of the cab ride worrying my hands between my fingers, barely listening to Ginny's ramblings about the club and the Harpies. She laments a few times that the girls hadn't told us sooner where they were, but a very guilty part of me is glad we hadn't know. There was no way Ron or Harry would have let us go, even if the sudden public safety concern wasn't an issue. And for as much as Harry and Ginny love each other, their fights are epic. And they look like tame kittens compared to how Ron and I can go at it when we disagree. It would have completely ruined the night and I would be curled up on the couch drinking one too many glasses of wine instead of heading out for a night of oblivion.

Ginny had said the girls were well known here, but I don't think I expected quite so much attention to be surrounding them. We don't have to wait in the long line running down the street, but instead she walks us straight to the door and we're quickly ushered past the group of men slowly allowing patrons to enter. A few Harpies are immediately inside the door, dressed to the nines and apologizing profusely to Ginny. I glance down at my own attire, woefully aware of how under-dressed I am compared to them.

They seemed to sense my discomfort, because in a flurry of perfume and pearls they pull Ginny and I into the bathroom. They quickly updated Ginny on the night's events, handing us bits of jewelry off their own bodies to share with us. Ginny accepts them without breaking a beat, slipping a bracelet and necklace on me while chatting away. I nearly slapped the hands of one of the girls who tries to touch my hair, but Ginny pulls me away before I'm forced to inform the girl that it only gets worse if you didn't know what you're doing with it. Ginny plops a tube of lipstick in my hand with a meaningful expression, then begins messing with her own hair in the mirror before asking, "What will it be? Relaxing at the bar, or dancing the night away?"

"Dancing," I said firmly. "Definitely dancing."

Once we're out of the bathroom Ginny has us check in with a few more of the girls at their table before she drags me toward the crowd of writhing bodies, where we've been for easily most of the night. There's a certain level of oblivion that you can sink into when you're surrounded by a crowd of nobody. When the bass is thick in the air, sliding through you in a manner that nearly changes the rhythm of your heart with its demanding beat. When the lights flash around you, obscuring all the bodies and their faces and personalities until you're just a wave of nothing in a sea of meaningless writhing.

I know Ginny is beside me. I can feel her energy bouncing beside me, moving to the music effortlessly. She pulled her hair up into a ponytail shortly after we arrived, but the small hairs that escape are stuck to her forehead. I'm sure my own hair is a wild mess, but it's hopeless to try to contain it. Plus, I always enjoy the feel of my hair along my back as I dance. But when the heat starts to get to us, Ginny shows me how to tie my shirt under my breasts, creating a mid-drift top that allows the air to hit my skin in a way that feels delicious as we dance. The sleeves of my shirt hang on my arms to expose my shoulders, so I'd elected to go braless at the start of the night. All the exposed skin, more than I usually show even on late nights out, makes me feel reckless and free.

Ginny brings her hands up to my shoulders, and they're surprisingly cool against my bare skin. A small chill goes through me as she pulls me closer to her until our bodies are touching, moving together. She laughs effortlessly, bringing her hands up my cheeks and bringing my face to hers. Her lips almost brush mine as she asks me, "Is this okay? Are you having fun?"

 _Fun._ I'm not entirely sure that's the right word for this moment. I feel numb, free, and weightless in the wind and waves of the endless sound around us. But fun? That would mean having a sense of happiness I can't bring myself to feel tonight. It requires a level of comfort and contentment I haven't felt in six months, if I'm being honest. But I suppose it's as close to it as I'll feel for a while, so I smile as energetically as I can at Ginny and nod enthusiastically.

She smiles so genuinely I feel guilty for the lie, as small at it is. "Good. I'm glad. You needed this."

A beautiful blonde with blazing white teeth and bright blue lips saunters up with a brilliant smile, handing Ginny and I drinks. I don't remember her name, but she's been friendly and I've enjoyed her company the most out of the Harpies in attendance tonight. I'm not sure if Ginny warned her about the state of my mood or if she's just perceptive, but she's been a good companion without pushing too hard. I feel terrible that I don't remember her name, and make a note to ask Ginny when we're alone.

The drink the girl hands me is bright green, and I don't bother to ask her what it is. I'm throwing caution to the wind tonight, after all. It's sickly sweet and tart and delicious, but I can almost feel it burning a hole in the bottom of my stomach along with the first drink she'd brought me earlier. I force another smile for her and mouth a "Thank you" before bringing the straw back to my lips. I make another note to insist to Ginny we hit up one of the fast food places in town still open in the early hours of the morning to soak up a little of this sugar before I go to sleep.

A guy sneaks up behind the blue lipped girl, sliding his hands around her hips as he asks, "Care to dance?" into her ear.

She spins around on the spot, her eyes raking him up and down as she assesses whether he is worth her time. I can't make out his features in the dark, but I think his skin is a caramel brown and his teeth are equally as bright as hers as he flashes her a smile that shows he knows exactly what she's doing. She must deem him worthy, because she nods and throws her wrists up around his neck, bringing her pelvis to his and grinding on him provocatively. Her carelessness surprises me and makes me envious. I haven't been that impulsive a day in my life.

"I have to go to the bathroom," Ginny shouts at me. "Will you be okay with Eugenia?" She asks this as she points her thumb at the blue lipped girl. "Or do you need to go too?"

 _Eugenia._ So that's her name. She give me a little smile over her shoulder at Ginny's words.

I shake my head. "No. I'm going to keep dancing."

Ginny gives me a knowing smile and points in the direction of the bathroom she's heading to before slipping through the crowd. In truth, I'm not sure if my bladder is screaming for relief or not. After the number of drinks I've had tonight, I'm sure it must be. But I can't feel anything below my lips, and I'm happy to keep it that way for as long as possible. I know as soon as I step out of the oblivion of the dance floor, I'll come down from this excellent high.

A few people jostle against me as Ginny vacates the space and I have to clutch my drink harder to keep from spilling it, but Eugenia maneuvers herself and her partner to ensure we're not separated. I want to tell her I'm fine, but a part of me also acknowledges the safety of staying together. So I tell myself to be grateful, and close my eyes to allow myself to slip back into the numbness of belonging only to the music.

After a few minutes, a pair of hands snake around my waist. I almost turn around to tell the person off, but their hands stay in a respectful location and I can see Eugenia give me a coy smile as she assesses my new partner with the same critical eye she gave her own. So he's not an utter toad. And while it shouldn't, this makes me a little more okay to have a stranger dancing with me.

He, for I'm sure my partner is a he based on the size and slight roughness of his hands on the patch of bare skin above my hips, presses his pelvis against my rear without being sloppy or insistent in the way some eager, young guys are. So I relax and find he's a good partner, keeping up with my movements and adjusting to the beat as smoothly as I do. It feels nice to interact with a human who doesn't expect anything out of me. Doesn't know my life is slowly falling apart and doesn't feel like they have to fix it. His presence is soothing, the anonymity of him a balm to my aching edges and my skin tingles pleasantly where he touches me. It feels like everyone around me has been too close, torn me wide open and left me raw to the touch. Having a stranger with me...something radiating from them makes me feel like everything will be alright.

I appreciate in this moment how easy it must be for people to have one night stands. I started dating Ron before we could even go to pubs, so I never experienced what it's like to take a stranger home. I've always been grateful to have missed out on that, but I can see how it would be a lifestyle some would become addicted to. There's a freedom you can have with a stranger that's not achievable when your partner knows you inside and out, almost better than you know yourself.

His thumbs slide gently up my sides for a moment, sending chills through me from my head to my toes. He doesn't go any further, and his thumbs return to their chaste positioning on my hips with the rest of his fingers. But it's enough to tell me, if I invited him to, he would be up for dancing a bit more provocatively.

As much as I appreciate the gesture, and despite the way my emotions have gotten away from me the last few months, I'm loyal to Ron. Dancing innocently with someone is one thing. But getting carried away is something I won't allow myself to do today. He leans forward for a moment, brushing his nose along my hair. I get a whiff of his smell, and at first I brace myself for the tang of body odor and cheap cologne. But he smells clean, and not at all sweaty. And the light smell of cologne I catch doesn't smell at all cheap, but warm and expensive. I shudder as I wonder how I smell, as I can feel the thin sheen of sweat that covers my entire body. But his grip on me tightens, almost desperately. And at that moment, I realize enough is enough.

I move to turn around to address the man, but as I turn his touch suddenly pulls away. By the time I fully turn around, there's no one nearby I can assume was my partner, based on the heights of the nearest men. And they're not looking at me, but instead they're throwing glares in the opposite direction of me, where I can only assume my partner has disappeared to.

"Oh my god," a voice behind me yells, startling me enough I spill a bit of my drink. "He was seriously hot."

I turn to see Ginny has returned, looking refreshed after her quick powdering in the restroom. She's giving me a wicked grin, glancing between me and the direction my mysterious partner disappeared in. "I leave you alone for ten whole minutes and you find yourself a piece of yummy man to dance with. Are you going to break it to my brother, or shall I?"

My face suddenly flames, my guilt surging. It hadn't felt like anything to be guilty about until that last second, when I'd planned to cut it off. "I...I mean...Ginny, you know-"

Ginny laughs, throwing her arm around my shoulders and giving me a little shake. "I'm kidding, Hermione. It seemed entirely innocent. And I know you. You and Ron are two of the most in love people I have ever seen. You're perfect for each other. It's alright to have a little shameless fun with someone on the dance floor."

Six months ago, I would have agreed. But now, I'm not so sure.

"I'm getting tired," I say, grabbing a fist of my unruly hair and twisting it to hold it against my head, letting a bit of air to my neck. "Is there somewhere we can sit down?"

"The girls have a table over there," Eugenia interrupts, leaning away from her partner to point toward a section of the club with clusters of sunken booths with beautiful people milling about them. The seats are white, with rotating lights shining underneath to guide patrons toward them while keeping the rest of the area concealed in a layer of darkness appropriate for the venue. "They have a few bottles tapped from the service we ordered when we got here, but there should still be plenty if you want to indulge while you take a break."

I glance toward my nearly empty glass, which I'd been subconsciously sipping on while dancing. I give Ginny a guilty smile as she notices the state of my drink and she shakes her head at me, her lips fighting to keep from smiling as well. "Come on," she said, grabbing my free hand to pull me away. "A break probably isn't a bad idea."

When we arrive at the table we're ambushed by other Harpies, who begin regaling us with stories about other patrons who they saw, who danced with who, and who's now fighting about a boy. Ginny indulges them, listening to each girl's story with a patient smile and she gives appropriate responses as warranted, allowing me to fade into the background. I slide onto the edge of the booth, surveying the options laid out on the table. A service girl hoovers nearby, a polite smile plastered on her face as she eyes us all carefully. A few men are smattered around the women, all of them watching the girls like wolves surveying a flock of lambs.

Ginny seems to sense my intent to retreat and scoots into the booth next to me as the other girls talk, raising an eyebrow at me. I shrug my shoulders and reach for the pitcher of ice water on the table to pour myself something that won't rot out my intestines. Now that there's no dancing to distract me, I suddenly realize how very hot I feel. I grab a chunk of hair again, desperately trying to pull it over my shoulder. Ginny reaches for my arm and pulls the hair tie I always have on me off my wrist, then wags her finger in a movement that signals she wants me to turn around. I obey, and she immediately digs her fingers into my hair, working to separate it into three sections. It takes her a few minutes, but when she finally does she weaves the pieces together until it's somewhat contained in a long plait that she maneuvers over my shoulder. When she's done I turn and give her a grateful smile, which she returns with a squeeze of my elbow.

My watch vibrates on my wrist, signaling the arrival of a text message. The pattern of the pulses tells me it's Ron, so I bring the watch toward my face to activate the screen.

 _All done. Need us to come get you guys?_

I lift my wrist to show Ginny the message, and she shakes her head furiously. I chuckle, and swipe my fingers across the screen until I manage to create a reply.

 _No. Staying longer._

His response is almost instant. _OK. B safe._

I'm a bit put off by his response, even though he hasn't technically done anything wrong. I'd expected him to press harder, wear me down by peppering me with messages until I relented to let him come get me, or to let him join us. It's the sort of overprotective act he normally performs. But he's let this one slide far too quickly.

* * *

And it's the last thing I hear from him the rest of the night. One of Ginny's sober girlfriends drops me off at my flat at a quarter to 4am, a cheese and egg biscuit in one hand and a bag of two large orders of fries in the other. I'm a bit unsteady on my feet, but I manage to make it to the secure door and punch in my access code. I turn to give Ginny and her friend a little wave that I'm set, and head toward the elevator at the end of the hall. I stop halfway there to kick off my shoes, because at this point of the night the heels are the most offensive piece of clothing I have on me right now.

I take the elevator up to the top floor, where my flat is. The hall is quiet when I get off, and rightfully slow. I make it to my door and attempt to dig out my keys, swearing when they fall to the ground as I fumble to keep a hold of my half eaten sandwich, fries, and shoes. I hear a door behind me click open, and I snap around to see the handsome neighbor from across the hall stepping out of his own flat, dressed for a run.

Viktor Krum is attractive in his own way, if you like the typical bronze skinned, lean bodied, tousled brunette type. Which most of the female population does. He is a fair specimen to be sure, the only flaw on his body I've ever seen is his nose, which has obviously been broken several times. It also doesn't hurt that he's incredibly kind.

He takes in my appearance and gives me a teasing smile. "Early morning, Herm-Own-Ninny?"

His Bulgarian accent is thick, especially in the morning. And he's still never managed to learn how to say my name appropriately. He's a football player like Ginny, and moved here from Bulgaria to join a team in London eighteen months ago. We'd met casually a few times the way neighbors do, but Ginny was the one who made the connection when she'd accompanied me home one day. I'm never usually up to see him leave his apartment for his runs, but I know he does them religiously every morning at ungodly hours.

I'm suddenly very self-conscious about how I must look. I can feel my hair escaping my braid, and my shirt is still tied up high on my torso. I'm wearing a dark shade of lipstick I'd normally never be caught dead in, and I'm sure my mascara is smudged unpleasantly under my eyes. Meanwhile he looks clean and refreshed,

"More like a late night," I say, bending to grab my keys.

He stoops over and picks them up for me, then slides the key into the bolt and turns it for me. He presses the door open for me, then gives me a bright smile. "Need any help?"

Viktor is nice enough and, honestly, a great neighbor. But while he respects my relationship with a Ron, he's never been shy about making sure I know he is an option as well. Ron was completely enamored with him at first, being a big fan of the sport and well aware of Viktor's excellence on the field. It was soured, though, when he also realized Viktor's excellence at flirting.

"Thanks, but I'm good. Ron's inside," I say, praying he actually is. I hold up the bag of fries, trying to indicate they're for him.

Viktor nods and smiles again, though it's less sincere this time. "Right. I didn't hear him come up. Have a good...morning, Herm-Own-Ninny."

He turns then and jogs down to the elevator. He jogs in place for a moment while he waits for the doors to open, and is still jogging in place when they close behind him.

Shaking my head, I step inside my flat and close the door smartly behind me before I slide the bolt back into place. I set the food down on the small table next to the door, glancing around for any signs of Ron. Whenever he hears Viktor's voice he's always quick to pop up beside me, making his territory clear. But the lack of a haphazardly thrown jacket and shoes tells me he's not here. My watch buzzes, and I expect to see a message from Ron, but instead it's Ginny making sure I got in my flat okay.

Sighing, I type out a quick response before grabbing my sandwich and fries and heading to the couch, content to eat every last one of both orders to spite him for not being here when I expected him to be. Ron loves food in general, but he's a bit of a fry addict. I take great pleasure in porking down everything and chugging down a full bottle of water before laying down on the couch to sleep, too exhausted to pull myself to the bedroom.

But to my horror, it's not Ron that appears in my dreams. No, for the last several nights I've dreamed of nothing except the most haunting, piercing set of eyes I've ever encountered. And they flash as soft, pale pink lips make their vow over and over.

" _This isn't over, Hermione."_

* * *

.x.x.x.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed, darlings. We're three chapters in, so I'd love to see what all of you think so far.

Thank you to Ana Beatriz N Martin, ElenaSilverstone, and my lovely guest reviewer for your kind words on the last chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

Breaking Heaven

Chapter 4

 _April 16th_

 _Session 2_

I know Mr. Malfoy is not a popular patient around the other doctors. Many have tried to treat him and failed for a variety of reasons. For some doctors he just simply refused to speak during the sessions, like he had with me at the end of our very first one. And for others, he led them to believe they were making progress in treating him, when in reality they were simply being coaxed to chase their own tails until they caught on to what was happening. In one case, Malfoy managed to identify a personal incident that had happened in the doctor's life without the doctor realizing the casual conversations were leading to Malfoy discovering the traumatic incident. He then struck with the information when the doctor was finally beginning to believe he'd identified the cause of Malfoy's "illness" that plagues him. He'd managed to regale the story to the doctor almost perfectly, which had spooked the doctor into quitting the next day.

Yes, Mr. Malfoy is certainly not a well-liked patient by any means.

But even so, we have a certain standard at Brockington. We all go into our jobs knowing what to expect, especially because our government funding requires us to work with individuals who have criminal backgrounds. While they all have their own unique story to tell and reasons that led them to where they are, that doesn't mean they're easy to get along with. Let alone spend several hours a week with trying to identify and treat the source of their issues.

So when I arrive to my session with Mr. Malfoy to find he isn't here, I immediately become concerned. The guard from last week, Hargen, is nowhere to be seen. Not a single guard is present anywhere in the hallway, which leads me to assume that Malfoy is not in any of the other assessment rooms nearby. I pull out my tablet to consult my schedule to make sure I have the time right, only to see that our appointment today has been deleted entirely from my records. I'm beginning to worry that something has happened to Mr. Malfoy that required a crenelation of our appointment. It would have to have been urgent for someone to have removed the appointment from my schedule without informing me. Frowning, I pull up Malfoy's treatment screens, looking for any signs he's been moved to the medical ward for treatment. Scrolling down, I find an entry listed for today.

"Electroconvulsive therapy. Ordered by Doctor Gilderoy Lockhart."

Cursing, I slam the tablet into my bag before taking off at a run down the hallway back the way I'd come, toward the medical ward.

Gilderoy Lockhart is another attending at Brockington Manor, although his position was earned by a silver tongue more than any actual knowledge or capabilities in the medical field. Whispers are often traded among the trainees about Lockhart stealing ideas from his interns and residents at the teaching hospital he worked at prior to Brockington in order to publish his papers without sharing the credit. He's approached me several times to work with him on a paper regarding the permanent damage of childhood neglect on the structures of the brain, but the rumors are enough to keep me from agreeing. And despite my repeated refusals, he always seems to be around "helping."

In fact, he was a strong opponent to me being placed on Mr. Malfoy's care. He'd gone to the board, arguing that I was still too fresh of a doctor to be placed with such a dangerous, mentally unstable patient. He'd insisted Mr. Malfoy be placed in his care instead, as he'd shown himself to be a true danger to those around him and only someone as experienced as himself could handle such a patient. Luckily, the board had elected to approve Malfoy's assignment to me as his primary.

But apparently that wasn't going to stop Lockhart from interfering yet again.

Everyone at the hospital is well aware of my aversion to treating patients with the more aggressive treatments that many doctors tend to fall to when a patient fails to respond to less invasive techniques. While it's not something I myself prescribe for patients, I know many doctors who have used the technique appropriately with some success. However, I have several reasons to be highly opposed to the technique's use on Mr. Malfoy in this instance.

My first cause for concern is the lack of success in the past. Three of Malfoy's previous doctor prescribed ECT to treat what they interpreted to be the "manic" states that resulted in his assaults on his guards. All three treatments produced minimal results, and the few "positive" results they noted seemed to be simply a more subdued nature, which was overcome in just a matter of a few days. And when reading through his file, I became concerned that the level of therapy being used was far too high of a setting than would normally be used for cases like Malfoy's where the treatment was still in the beginning stages. The behavior changes afterward that they note only confirm my suspicion.

My second cause for concern is the doctor who has prescribed the treatment. No treatment notes have been entered, so I can only hope it's because he hasn't started yet. If Lockhart manages to get his hands on Malfoy, I'm worried he'll be beyond the help of medicine. I'd promised if he didn't cooperate he'd end up a sedated mess on the floor. I just didn't anticipate it happening in quite this way.

As I come around the corner I can see the doors to the med care unit are securely shut with a red light overhead, indicating a high-risk patient is in the area. My badge quickly unlocks the doors and I squeeze in through one of the heavy doors, which swings closed again quickly behind me. I can almost instantly hear the sound of the lock sliding home at the area secures again.

I slide my tablet out again to pull up his patient screen, checking if a room assignment is listed yet, and I'm relieved to see the room 5B now listed next to the scheduled treatment. Down the hall a bit further then. Just as I round the corner at 4D I can begin to hear the sounds of an argument taking place in one of the rooms. It quickly becomes apparent it's coming from the room booked for Malfoy's appointment, and I break into an all out run at the realization. My heels clack on the tiles as I curse for the hundredth time my choice is footwear today.

One of the voices is that of a female's I don't recognize. The other is a voice I couldn't mistake anywhere. It's Lockhart, and he's arguing with the female in a tone of voice that sounds a bit too frantic for my liking.

"Dr. Granger's preferences are a standing order," the female says in a stern voice. "Her patients are not to receive ECT without her direct orders and presence during administration. You are completely out of line."

"Out of line!" Lockhart says in a shocked, nervous manner that scares the hell out of me. "I am a senior attending at this institution. My orders outrank Hermione Granger's _preferences._ This patient is dangerous, and electroconvulsive therapy is the only way to control him at this point."

"ECT isn't to be used to _control_ patients," the woman says, "It's a _treatment._ Not a means to shackle them."

"If you would bother to read any of my research-"

At that moment my hand hits the doorknob and I fling the door open, white hot rage nearly obscuring my vision. The first thing I see is Lockhart standing with the female, a nurse, looking red with fury, then white with shock followed by green with nervousness. He's handsome if you like the stereotypical wavy blonde hair, startling blue eyes, and perfect white teeth type. But to me, he's always seemed like an overly sweet treat. One tiny bite is fine, anything more than that makes you sick. The female, a pretty redhead nurse I don't recognize, looks triumphant and apologetic at my arrival. The guard, Hargen, is there, a control gun squeezed tight between his fingers as he stares at the body on the exam table. Another nurse is standing pressed against the hall near the head of the table, looking nauseated as her gaze darts between Lockhart and myself.

And then my gaze falls to Draco Malfoy. His shirt has been unbuttoned, his pale skin stretched over a too-thin frame. Electrodes are scattered across his chest, gathering heart rate information that's reflected in the rhythmic beeping playing out on the monitor. A set of different ones are placed along his forehead, and I can see the two paddles that apply the electrical currents resting on the cart beside him. His wrists are bound to the table by hard, plastic restraints and I can see the red marks around then from where he's struggled. An IV line has been placed, in his arm in case emergency medication needed to be administered if the treatment did not go as planned, and there is blood on his arm from what I assume are several failed attempt to initially place the line. He was staring at the ceiling when I entered, but now his eyes are piercing from across the room, nearly pinning me in place with a mixture of apprehension and confusion.

"Remove those at once," I say to the young nurse standing beside him. My voice is sharp and commanding, making her jump before she hastily reaches for the pads on his chest.

"Not those, you idiot," I snap, striding over to her. "I'll need to monitor his heart rate for the rest of the afternoon. I meant those monstrosities on his head. Get. Them. Off."

The nurse nods as she quickly begins detaching wires before delicately removing the stick pads with a swab of alcohol to remove the adhesive. While she does so I stomp over to the cardiac monitor to examine the readings still printing out of the small printer. I can nearly feel my blood pressure skyrocket as I can clearly see the moment they hit him with the ECT. Appropriately applied ECT doesn't result in the readings I'm seeing. My vision nearly goes dark with fury as I turn on Lockhart and the redheaded nurse, who have been watching me apprehensively since I arrived.

"Ah, Miss Granger," Lockhart says with his fakest, most saccharine smile. "As you can see, we've begun administering Mr. Malfoy's first round of ECT, to which he's responded—"

"Who," I spit, the paper in my hands rattling as my hands shake with rage, "in the bloody _fuck_ thought it was appropriate to shock this man's brain without my orders?"

Lockhart blanches at my words, even going so far as to take a step back like he fears I'm going to actually physically harm him. It's tempting.

"Hermione," he says in a patronizing tone, "you must understand that my years of experience-"

"You," I say with a snap, rounding the exam table, "will refer to me as 'Doctor Granger,' as is appropriate for my education, qualifications, and position here." My voice drops lower with each word, my anger seeping through to ooze over my tongue and lips, my stare hard and unforgiving. "And I _will_ be reporting this to the dean and the board. How dare you violate my treatment regiment? You are _not_ the attending on this case, Dr. Lockhart."

"The patient is dangerous," Lockhart says hastily, stepping back again until he is almost standing behind the red headed nurse. I'm close enough to her now I can read the name stitched on her scrub top. _Alice._

"I am well aware of Mr. Malfoy's status," I say, lifting my tablet to indicate my source of such information. "But the way his treatment is to be conducted had been delegated to me, despite your objections to my assignment to him."

Lockhart looks annoyed now, his face reddening as he screws up his blandly handsome face in a retort. "My objections merely lay in my concerns for your safety. This man's dangerous condition has resulted in several injured staff. I'm well acquainted with the case, and I felt the intervention was necessary to ensure the proper treatment was being pursued."

"If you were that well acquainted with his case, you would have seen that ECT has been tried before and has resulted in nothing more than the patient being abused and sedated. I will _not_ ," I hiss, "discuss his care with you any further without the dean present."

I turn away from Lockhart now, and I can hear him sputtering behind me as I walk toward Malfoy. His eyes are still on me, looking confused and relieved now. The nervous nurse has removed the electrodes from his head, but left the ones on his chest as I'd requested. His heart is beating steadily, a even beat that makes the distress on his heart during the "treatment" even more noticeable.

"And Lockhart," I say, not turning around to face him. I continue to keep my eyes on Malfoy's as I address the pseudo doctor across the room. "If you touch _any_ of my patients from now on, I'll make sure you never practice medicine again. That's a promise."

His response is only the sound of a horrified squawk, followed by the quick click of his overpriced dress shoes on the tile on his way out of the room. The door snaps behind him with an air of finality that makes me smile.

When Malfoy finally speaks, his words are sticky in his throat, making me wince. _"_ You really are quite protective, aren't you Doctor?"

I contemplate his words for a moment. Protective. Is that what this was? I examine him as I consider the notion. I suppose that was as close a word as there could be to the responsibility I feel on my shoulders every day when it comes to the people in my care. I don't tolerate those in power using it to manipulate those who they have charge over. No one should ever be completely helpless to the whims of another.

"I believe every person deserves respect, and those with the ability to ensure that are duty-bound to do so."

Malfoy's monitors begin to beep erratically for a moment, causing me to jump. I immediately move around the table again to the small printer, examining the paper with the readouts of his heart beats. The rhythms appear normal for the most part, however the sudden change just now makes me nervous. I turn off the printer, changing the settings in the system to ping me every half hour if there's been any more arrhythmias. While it's unlikely Lockhart applied enough power to cause any extreme damage, I'm not entirely convinced it's outside the realm of possibilities

"So no more electricity for my little old noggin?"

I glance up from the screen to see Malfoy giving me a small, delirious smile. This is on par with what his doctors have said his response to ECT has been in the past. He experiences a period of euphoria and confusion, followed a few days later by periods of aggression. It's nice to see the man who was so stoic last week grinning like a child at me now, but I know we need to get him settled in a more permanent medical supervision room soon. I need to ensure he's receiving the care he needs quickly so I can get to the dean in time to demand Malfoy receives the treatment by staff that he will need when the aggression hits. I don't want him or any staff injured when the problem can be avoided.

I can't help but give his goofy grin a returning smile. "No. No more."

"I'm going to hurt someone," he almost sings. "I always do when they hit me with the juice."

"I know," I sigh, resting a hand on his wrist. He jumps at the contact, but he's too bewildered to pull away. "I'm going to help the nurses get you settled, then I'm going to discuss your care with the dean. I think I'd like to sedate you for the next few days, to give your brain and body a break while you recover."

He sighs and tilts his head back further on the pillow, the picture of resignation. "Do what you've gotta do, Doc. But don't let that one touch me," he says, shrugging his shoulder toward the meek nurse who's gone back to pressing herself as far into the wall as she can. "She doesn't have a spine to speak of, and I have no patience for that."

"I agree," I say, my voice hard as I raise it to meet the timid brown eyes of the nurse. She's shaking slightly, as if she's actually afraid I'm going to bite her. I'm certain she knew the procedure was against my orders, but didn't have the skin to refuse Lockhart's instructions. "You're excused, nurse."

The girl doesn't hesitate. She hastily squeezes past the table, nearly running for the door in her hurry to remove herself from the situation. Alice watches her run by, an eyebrow raised in interest as the girl retreats. She turns back to me, her expression clearly challenging me to try to dismiss her.

"Alice," I say, removing my hand from Malfoy's wrist to slide to his chest, examining the attachment of the electrodes to his skin. His body shivers under me, and I'm aware of the fact I forgot to attempt to warm my hands before placing them on him. "Sorry, Mr. Malfoy. Alice, thank you for your attempts to protect Mr. Malfoy today. Can I trust your consideration for his well being to continue long enough to get him safely to an observation room while I speak with the dean?"

A flicker of apprehension flashes across her eyes, so fast I would have missed it if I hadn't looked up at the exact right moment. But she quickly schools herself into an expression of mild interest as she says, "Of course, Doctor."

I understand her nervousness to be around Malfoy for longer than necessary, especially when his doctor will not be nearby to supervise. While he's been temporarily "controlled" he still poses a danger to himself and others. I give her a gentle smile, the last good-natured bit of myself I have left to give today.

"I'm going to administer a sedative now," I say, striding to the cabinet of locked drawers on the other side of the room. "Can you please ensure the other nurse placed his IV line appropriately? It looks like there was a struggle to place it."

Alice nods and strides to Malfoy while I enter the necessary code to unlock the drawer I need, and select the vial from the stock of mild sedatives kept in the room for these such procedures. I scan the barcode on the side of the bottle with my tablet, which thinks for a moment as it examines his files for any allergies or recently administered medication that have interactions with the sedative. The system give the all clear, along with the appropriate range of mediation to give depending on the level of sedation intended. I draw up just enough to make him sleepy and his limbs heavy and relaxed, typing in the dosage in the system.

"The line is intact," Alice says with a frown as I reach the table again, "but it looks like they made a pin cushion out of him first."

Indeed it does. There are several bruises already forming on his arms from attempts to place a line. While at first glance it's obvious Malfoy is dehydrated, something I intend to speak to the care staff about, his veins are strong in his arms where even most new nurses wouldn't have struggled so much to get it placed. I strongly suspect Lockhart attempted to place the line himself.

"Alright, Mr. Malfoy," I say, holding the syringe up. "This stuff is going to take the edge off real fast. It might even get you to fall asleep. Are you ready?"

He smirks with lidded eyes as he spits out, "Like I have a choice."

Frowning, I remove the cap from the syringe and insert the needle into the port on the line. "I'm sorry that you don't," I say, depressing the plunger on the syringe to administer the dosage.

He gives me a confused look and says, "You're not at all what I expected, Doctor." His silver eyes, so sharp last week, are already growing hazy. "Maybe you're just as broken as I am."

"We're all a little broken, Mr. Malfoy," I say, shaking my head. "Enjoy your nap. I'll check in with you later."

He mumbles something, and from the tone of his voice I can tell he intends it to come out stern. But the sedative works quickly, and he's out so suddenly I don't get a chance to ask him to repeat himself.

"Please ensure he gets up to a room immediately," I say to Alice. "And please let the care staff know I'll be rather cross if I find out he's neglected anymore. He's sedated and restrained, so there's no reason for him to not be monitored closely."

Alice nods, staring at Malfoy. "He does look rather benign now, doesn't he?"

I turn to look back to Malfoy again, taking in the sudden softness of his face. It's normally drawn into a sneer or frown of disdain, but in sleep his face is smooth and calm. His face is still angular, with a sharp nose and tight jaw line that befit a man born into a certain level of wealth. But seeing him this way, he's surprisingly attractive. And it goes to show how much a pretty face can be destroyed by a damaged soul.

"Indeed," I say, pulling my eyes away from him. "It's a shame he's always in such a foul mood otherwise."

Alice gives a gentle smile, then moves to stand at the head of his bed. She attaches the cardiac monitor to the bed, then releases the brakes to allow the bed to move freely. The wheels move unhindered, allowing her to easily maneuver it on her own out the door. I follow her out, then turn toward the direction of the dean's office. And every step I take away from Malfoy and Alice, I get the sinking feeling that I'm only going to uncover more and more disasters in his file. And so this conversation with the dean is critical.

Hermione Granger doesn't take no for an answer.

* * *

.x.x.x.

* * *

Hello again, darlings. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter!

To my guest reviewer, M: The story will take place in equal parts Brockington Manor/Post-Brockington, alternating between chapters. Things may change toward the end, because as I approach the halfway mark (this fic is about half written already) I'm having more to say about their current relationship rather than the one in Brockington. But we shall see. I'm having fun writing this way, because it gives everyone a chance to enjoy the slow burn of their relationship growing, while seeing things at full-speed after the fact.

Thank you to AuraAuthor, HeavenlyMonster, reptilegirl, and my lovely guest reviewers for your kind words. I love you for it!


	5. Chapter 5

Breaking Heaven

Chapter 5

 _October 6th_

 _After Brockington_

"Fuck."

I look like a fucking clown.

There is nothing more frustrating than trying to apply lipstick on a crowded, shoddy elevator. Especially when you're not exactly an aficionado to begin with. And it's definitely worse when you're going for a bold red.

And I curse myself for the endeavor, because this is never something I would have bothered with in the past. But that particular conversation has been spinning in my head all morning, one of many I shared with him during our sessions. And I'd grabbed the red lipstick out of my drawer where I'd stashed it away that day after becoming embarrassed at the purchase.

" _Wear it for me next week. I'll give you my judgement then."_

" _I don't need your judgement, Mr. Malfoy."_

 _A depreciating smile._

" _You keep telling yourself that, Doc."_

I hear a snicker and a cough come from behind me as well as the shifting weight of a handful of people who are uncomfortable with my outburst. Why the fuck there are so many people here on a Sunday, I'm not sure. The NCA offices are always open with staff coming and going all days of the week, but Sunday is typically the quietest day. I'm embarrassed, annoyed, and on top of it all I'm anxious for the impending meeting ahead of me. I'd still been asleep on the couch when the call came, and the morning was a flurry of stress as I scrambled to get myself presentable.

"Hermione," comes a kind voice from behind me. Amelie, a gentle black-haired beauty with soft, pale skin and wide dark eyes from a few floors above the Organized Crime office, hands me a damp towelette with a sympathetic smile. I'm not surprised to see her here today. I've never gotten the impression Amelie is a very social creature, always flitting around the offices every time I'm here regardless of the day of the week. She gives me a shy smile as our fingers brush when I accept the gesture.

I share a shaky smile in return and turn back to the reflective surface of the wall to adjust the now wobbly outline of my lips. In a fit of frustration and self-loathing I swipe the cloth across my lips completely to leave behind bare, inflamed skin. I'd only tried to put anything on them to hide the fact they were still somewhat stained from the dark lipstick I'd been too exhausted to remove before passing out on the couch this morning. I sigh and shove the towelette in the pocket of my smart suit jacket, muttering more impolite words as I do so.

I'm not really sure why it possessed me to try and apply any form of makeup today on my own. I'm normally content with the plain and simple. It takes enough time every morning to tame my unruly hair into any semblance of passable style. I didn't get where I am on looks, but by working hard in my field, especially harder than all the boys I had to compete against. Luckily I'm not a complete troll so I can get by the with the more basic female grooming necessities, but anything beyond that is completely surpassing my capabilities.

Yet again I curse Malfoy, and every dark thought he'd ever managed to plant in my mind.

"Everything okay?" Amelie asks quietly from behind me. I lift my eyes to find hers peering at the reflection of mine over my shoulder. Her scrutiny startles and upsets me and I'm quick to brush off her concern.

"Fine." The first one comes out a bit too high and harsh for my comfort so I make an effort to relax as I say again, "Fine. Thank you."

Admittedly, I do look a bit frazzled. My normally uncontrollably curly hair is a bit larger than usual from me anxiously raking my fingers through it and the bags under my boring brown eyes make me wish I would have found one of those blasted makeup tutorials online to erase them this morning. As if I would have had time.

"Big meeting today?" Amelie asks politely as she takes a half-step toward me, effectively blocking me from the view of the majority of the people in the elevator that are now staring at me. God bless this woman. I make a note to actually follow up on her offer for tea some afternoon when she offers again. That is, if I haven't blown all chances at this friendship as thoroughly as I have others recently.

"Yes," I sigh, sliding my hands down my conservative pencil skirt anxiously. "McGonagall

called for an emergency meeting this morning. I'm afraid I'm a bit in the dark as to the subject matter and I'm on edge at the moment." No way in hell am I about to admit to Amelia that my consulting privileges have been revoked, so I can't see any possible reason McGonagall would want to meet with me today.

Amelie's smile is wide and sincere. "She must want to congratulate you on your success. I hear Macnair's trial starts next week."

I shrug but can't help a smile. It really was a brilliant case. And while people like Amelie will never really know the lengths it takes to put Death Eaters like Macnair behind bars, it's nice to know there's a small amount of recognition somewhere. Even if my elation over the matter is clouded by the Brockington incident. I'd been consulting on the case while treating Malfoy in Brockington. I'd often had to leave meetings with Harry and Ron sooner than I'd like to return for my sessions with him, and the success of the trial is now tainted by my memories of our afternoons together.

It's not unusual for McGonagall to call me in rather abruptly for a case briefing, but it is unusual for me to be completely unaware of the cause of our meeting. I'm usually confident and comfortable when it comes to my consulting services. I graduated top in my class from university and I have a fascination with puzzles. People intrigue me but there are few people I find are worth the effort of interacting with on a conversational basis; I'm far from a social butterfly. All of this, I suppose, has a tendency to make me come off a little snobbish. "Insufferable" is the tender word of endearment my friends have used when they're particularly cross with my deductive skills. There's a misconception amongst some of my peers that I view myself as better than others, above them somehow.

As the elevator jerks to a stop on another floor I'm jolted from my thoughts and my eyes begin to focus. As they do, I see that Amelie's been forced to scoot over and her spot has been replaced by that of a gentleman with a mop of soft brown hair, smooth porcelain skin and a strong jaw. His lips lift in a confident smile, as if he was certain I'd notice and appreciate his interest soon. So, while the brilliant white teeth almost make me weak in the knees as he smiles, I forced a frown to my lips and jerked my gaze away to stare at the numbered button panel to will the elevator to go faster. Amelie is shifting anxiously to my left now and I can't help but remember how several months ago I would have been exasperated to witness a woman so undone by the presence of an attractive man. But now...

 _"Do I make you uncomfortable, Doctor?"_

 _"You have...an uncanny ability to make people around you uneasy."_

 _"Indeed."_

 _"Is it intentional?_

 _A flash of brilliant white teeth in a smile I'm beginning to find more and more breathtaking as I realize how rare it is to see. "Entirely."_

The jarring of the elevator's next stop brings me back to the present, where the beautiful stranger exits as suddenly as he entered. Amelie deflates noticeably beside me and I can't help but shake my head at her now. In all my time studying the human mind, I still don't understand the ability for the presence of one person to unnerve someone so easily. But then, experiencing it myself has done nothing to help either.

We make a few more stops along the way, a few passengers getting off while a few less trickle in for the remainder of the ride up. I feel a sigh of relief tear up my throat as the light for the twelfth floor finally blinks in signal that we are slowing for my destination. I shift the heavy bag on my shoulder, laden down with books and files, and straighten my spine as I prepare to face the day with a fresh start to replace the subpar beginning.

"Have a good day, Hermione," Amelie says with a sweet smile. "I'm sure everything will be fine."

I give her a confirmation nod and return the smile as the elevator doors shut firmly in her face, leaving me alone with only one other person in the lobby. I take a moment to gather myself before turning to face the frosted glass partition that awaits my access card to unlock. I have a moment of panic as I begin searching my bag. It's been a while since I've been to the Organized Crime office, my work at Brockington has kept me detained over the last several weeks and I'm suddenly concerned for my badge's whereabouts. A wave of relief hits me when my fingers find the hard plastic of it, but a fresh feeling of dread eases over me.

 _"Are you sure you belong amongst the lesser, Doctor?"_

 _"I'm not sure I follow."_

 _Piercing grey eyes burrow into mine. "You don't belong there. I know it. And you know it. No matter how hard you may try to bury it, you know that's not where you belong."_

 _"Pray tell, where exactly to you think I belong?"_

 _A flash in the eyes as he says, "Exactly where I want you."_

"Doctor," says a deep male voice from behind me. "Shall we enter?"

Embarrassed, I turn to see a well-dressed man standing anxiously behind me, eyeing my badge over the top of thick glasses as he fingers his own with uncertainty. I'm startled that he knows enough about me to call me by my title, but I quickly recognize him as one of the supervisors in the laboratory downstairs. He's been in briefings before to discuss their test results with the team. I didn't think the technicians would be working on a Sunday, and I'm suddenly concerned that there may be a bit more to the busy offices than I've originally thought. Has something more happened?

"Oh," I say, raising the badge to the sensor on the wall. "Of course. My apologies."

The glass smoothly slides open to reveal a reception desk and a small receiving lobby as he says, "No need, ma'am. The mind is prone to wandering, I know."

Despite his reassurances, he's quick to scoot past me toward the hallway on the right of the reception desk. Dean, the man who works the front desk of the department, gives a small laugh.

"You certainly have a way with people, Dr. Granger."

"Indeed," I huff, striding through the entryway to allow the doors to seal behind me. "She dragged you in today too?"

Dean laughs, and says, "Yes. But you know the Director. She never take a day off, so it's rare we do ourselves."

"She's an impossible woman to say 'no' to," I agree.

He nods to his right, indicating the hallway to the left of the desk. "Go ahead on back, she's waiting for you. I'll buzz her to let her know you're on your way."

"Thanks, Dean," I say, shifting my bag a bit higher on my shoulder to center myself. "Talk more on the way out, yeah?"

He smiles indulgently while he presses the button on his desk that temporarily unlocks the door to the staff offices. "Of course, Doctor."

* * *

"Miss Granger," Director McGonagall greets calmly. She's standing at a desk in front of a large bank of windows looking over London's heart. She has a pair of thin, smart glasses perched on the end of her nose and her silvery hair is neatly pulled into a severe bun on top of her head. She's still a strong, intimidating woman despite the fact she's pushing retirement.

She pulls the glasses off slowly and places them on the desk before gesturing to the room. "So glad you could finally join us."

I gulp, suddenly alarmed. McGonagall had only called for the special meeting this morning, leading me to assume it would just be the two of us. There are three other faces staring back at me, though, and I'm not sure I'm happy to see any of them at this moment. They're scattered about the room wearing varying faces of dismay and utter, spiteful joy. These are three men I have no interest in seeing in this particular moment, when being back in this office reminds me of all the terrible moments of dismissal yesterday, stirred by one fateful conversation in the office of Brockington's head of the board just Friday morning.

 _"You wish to be reassigned, then?"_

 _"Yes._

 _"A pity. You were the only one to make any progress with him. He'll be at rather a disadvantage without your assistance."_

 _"I'm aware."_

 _"I'm assuming this is due to the events that took place during your session yesterday." His eyes sparkle a deep black of disappointment and disgust as he surveys my expression, which I am schooling into one of easy detachment, despite my own heart's steady ache._

 _"No. It's...more than that."_

 _"I'm sorry to hear that, Doctor."_

The first face I settle on is that of Harry. He's a rather handsome man, if a bit unkempt even in the light of day. His black hair is always a bit unruly despite his best efforts and those of Ginny to rectify it. His green eyes are normally warm and welcoming, but today they flash with anger. I'm sure for a moment he's grown a few inches since I last saw him, but I quickly realize it's because he's standing tall. He's always relaxed with me, all humor and laughter these last few years as the angst of his childhood has fallen away. But in this moment he's tall and standoffish, which makes him appear intimidating. It's not something I'm used to. Harry has always protected me, always been ready to jump to my aid. It's something that made him my most treasured friend, and one that made him a valuable asset in his work as well. In this moment, however, I feel the judgment against me radiating off him in waves.

 _"Would you, Granger," he grates out so low I barely make it out, "be so willing to proclaim my merits to your shiny, gold-star friends? Would you be so sure of my intentions then? Is your heart strong enough to fight them?"_

 _Silence. I have no answer for him._

 _"I thought not."_

"Hermione," Harry greets coldly. "I trust our presence won't be a problem."

"Harry," I begin, ice seizing my heart. "I don't-"

"Bugger off, Harry," another male voice insists, and I'm drawn to the face of one most optimistic people I know. The one who was my rock, my anchor, my everything...until about six months ago. Now he's just...less in ways I can't even begin to understand. And that hurts me more than I'd ever thought possible. Because he's always been the thing in my life that's been...well... _the most_ in every way _._

His red hair is a beacon of light in the room, a trademark of his family. His adorable smattering of freckles across his nose under the sweetest blue eyes I've ever seen still manage to take my breath away. First he was my friend, and then my boyfriend. And as of a few days ago...my Fiancé.

The Fiancé who didn't bother to show up at my flat last night.

Harry snorts and turns away. "I can't believe you're still defending her, Ron. After all this time, you can't see what's happened. What he's done to her-"

"Enough." McGonagall snaps harshly. "Mr. Potter, you assured me this would remain professional."

"It's fine, Director." Ron says with this with an eye roll and a smile in my direction. "Harry just forgets how brilliant our Hermione is. I'm working on him, darling. It will be okay."

 _"Does it still feel good when he touches you?" He asks on a breath. "I can see it. Every day. That inner glow you carry about, Granger, has shifted. It's not the light that makes you shine, but the warm comfort of the darkness."_

 _"My heart harbors no darkness."_

 _A deep, charming chuckle. "Everyone's heart harbors darkness. And you, clever bird, can only hide it for so long."_

But he was wrong. Ron means more to me than everything that has transpired. More than anything ever. He's my one. My only. Being with Ron is everything I ever dreamed of since I was a child. He's the most kind-hearted creature to ever walk the earth. Like a warm terrier who gives you a goofy grin one minute and curls on your lap to warm you the next. We've been together for six years now, and nothing could ever tear us apart. Not even _him_. Even though things are different now doesn't mean we can't get back to that place again.

"I trust we haven't pulled you from anything pressing, Doctor," McGonagall says with a huff in Ron's direction. "I'm afraid we have urgent matters that may detain you this afternoon, although I apologize that it is a Sunday."

"No," I say firmly, if a bit quietly from the mortification of the moment. "I'm sure you're aware of the administrative leave Brockington has imposed due to my work on the Malfoy case."

"Yes," McGonagall says slowly, carefully with a nod of the head. "I'm sure you're relieved to be free of the task of his care."

I'm aware this is a thinly veiled question. My latest patient was a bit controversial, as was my approach to his care. I take a moment to contemplate my response before settling on, "I will miss the challenge, but I am highly aware of the opportunities this will present me with assisting your operations once everything is straightened out."

There. I've said it as if nothing is amiss. As if this is a casual bump in the road and I'll be back to working at Brockington and consulting for the NCA in no time. Obviously. Even though my chest feels so tight that it feels like rib is going to crack at any moment.

"Quite." McGonagall says. "You're one of our biggest assets, Hermione. We're thrilled to have your undivided attention."

Undivided indeed.

 _"Is this a game to you?"_

 _"Everything is a game to me. You're just starting to learn the rules." His lips are smooth and beautiful as they stretch across his faultless teeth in a perfect, haunting smile. "And I'm just starting to learn you."_

 _Shivers. Desire. Intrigue._

 _"And what is it you hope_ _to win in this game?"_

 _"Everything."_

"As much as I enjoy listening to the praise of others, I'm afraid I'm pressed for time."

The voice is familiar, and I'm drawn to the most confusing face of all; The face of Blaise Zabini. He's tall and muscular across the shoulders, cutting an intimidating form even compared to Harry and Ron, who normally command the attention of a room. He has caramel skin with high cheekbones, with hair shaved short and a faint line of stubble along his jaw. He's admittedly handsome, if a bit unnerving in the way he carries himself. He's a man I never expected to see anywhere near a police station. I'd always assumed he was deeply entrenched in the Death Eaters, and had a deep loathing of all things regulatory. His distaste for me was always quite clear.

 _"I'm afraid you can't visit with him today."_

 _"And why the bloody fuck not?" His breath is hot in my face, the cool peppermint scent of toothpaste curling around my nose. It's a struggle, but I force myself to be firm in the face of his anger._

 _"It will do him no good to have visitors, Mr. Zabini. We are trying to correct bad habits, not inflame them."_

 _A harsh laugh. "I'm not sure what you're insinuating, Doc, but I'd be careful if I were you. There are certain people in this city you would do well to be kind to. You never know who's behind the next corner."_

His dark chocolate eyes are alight with a cruel sort of joy as he takes in my confusion. His posture is comfortable compared to that of my friends, with Harry acting aggressive toward me while Ron stands defensive of me. He's relaxed here, totally in his element of chaos. And it makes me want to slap that sly little smile off his face.

"Yes, Mr. Zabini, we will make this quick," McGonagall says with resignation, dropping to her seat. The scene is eerily familiar to the one I sat through just yesterday morning. McGonagall had called me to another sudden meeting much like this one.

 _"Dr. Granger, I'm assuming the events of last night have not been made known to you yet?"_

 _I shift awkwardly from foot to foot, suddenly aware something has been kept from me. Something important._

 _"No," I breathe. "I'm afraid I'm a bit out of the loop, as they say."_

 _McGonagall brings her elbows to rest on the desk in front of her, then brings her long, knotted fingers to her forehead to massage it roughly. "I'm afraid there was a breakout from Brockington last night. Three patients were assisted in an escape and are loose in the city. Through the night and this morning there have been no leads. They have vanished."_

 _My blood runs cold, and I suddenly have every desire to run from the room. Run from her words. Run from the danger I know will be brought to my understanding in a matter of moments. My heart begs her not to say the words. The instant she does, everything in the world will be my fault._

 _"Mr. Malfoy escaped last night, Doctor." McGonagall says this without emotion, but she brings her eyes to mine to assess my reaction, I'm sure. "Brockington just released his records to us under the concern that he is now a public danger. He was informed of your desires to be reassigned from his care. An hour later he was gone, without a single alarm sounding in his wake."_

 _My knees fail me in that instant. My head is swimming as fear races in my veins. Why am I just now being told? Did my safety matter to no one? Did anyone see what could be coming now that he's free, running the streets? Our last interaction was less than pleasant. In fact, I'm pretty sure my life was threatened._

 _"Why was I not informed?" I gasp. "Surely safety is a concern to be had in light of his escape?"_

 _"It was unnecessary at the time," McGonagall says dismissively. "We had officers stationed outside your building, and I called our meeting promptly this morning. You were never in any danger. But I'm afraid your consultation services are suspended, pending a decision from Brockington after a review of the case."_

 _My blood runs cold at her words. "They're running a review?"_

 _McGonagall sighs, pressing her back into her chair. "I'm sure they'll be arranging a meeting with you today, Dr. Granger."_

I snap my head to her, suddenly outraged at the implications of yesterday's conversation. Now that I've had time to mull it all over, there are a few questions I need addressed.

"Why was there a question of whether or not I was aware of what happened at Brockington Friday evening?" I ask with an edge to my voice. "How would I have any knowledge of what happened?"

"There was some concern you already knew," Harry snapped, turning from the window to face me full on, his expression one of cold distaste. "Brockington informed us they thought you would be the first person he'd reach out to once he was out. And now that I've had the opportunity to read his files myself, I agree with McGonagall's initial concerns."

"No!" I cry out, striding over to my closest friend with the full intention of causing bodily harm for the bite in his words. "Why would he? And how could you think that of me?"

"The matter is moot." McGonagall's tone stops me short, and I turn to look at her. She's on her feet again, and Zabini has shifted to stand beside her, an amused expression on his face as he takes in my reactions with glee. Ron has countered Zabini, moving away to stand near the door with a guarded expression. He looks at me with fresh hurt but forces a caring, supportive smile.

My dearest Ron. The love he offers me is almost painful in the face of these last six months. I can feel my left ring finger throbbing to the beat of my heart, to the beat of my internal reprimand. _Liar. Whore. Deceiver. Unworthy. Cheat. Contemptible. Undeserving. Shameful._ They are the same words that haunted me after every session with Malfoy, after every moment I allowed to go too far. After one too many shared secrets, one too many moments of straying thought. Malfoy is to blame for everything, and I thought I had firmly placed him in my past on Friday after that meeting with the Dean. But the words that leave Zabini's mouth show me just how false that is.

"I know where he is," Zabini says, his tone almost bored. "And I need your help to deal with him."

"My help?" I blurt out, horrified and relieved and...grateful all at once to know he knows where Malfoy is. And I find myself praying that means he's okay. "What on earth makes you think I, of all people, can make Malfoy behave? If you three have read the file," I say to McGonagall, Harry, and Ron, "then you can clearly see that won't be the case."

Zabini snarls as he says, "Despite his remarkable intelligence, he trusts you. You, of all people. Which means I need you. And he's desperate to get to you. He saw you at Boneyard last night, Granger. He thinks it's a sign you want to connect with him."

Ron's shoulders hunch at Zabini's words, but he doesn't react beyond that. Which means he already knows I was at Boneyard last night, in Death Eater territory. Combined with Brockington's assumptions that Malfoy may try to make contact with me, or maybe already had, I'm sure it was a hard blow to his heart this last night. Which explains the cold shoulder I received.

"I'm sorry, " I say, walking slowly toward the desk as McGonagall drops back into the chair with exasperation. "I'm not sure I follow. If Malfoy is free, why would you think he'd reach out to someone associated with the people who want to put him back in Brockington?"

Despite it's at exact odds of what Harry and Ron want, I'm terrified for Malfoy at the idea of him being returned to Brockington. If things were bad for him before, it will be all the worst if he's put back in that place. And I won't be able to protect him a second time. After this, there's no way they'll let him anywhere near him again.

"Doctor," McGonagall says with a sigh. "Please pull up a chair. This will take some explaining."

I glance behind me at the sound of wood on tile. Ron's grabbed a lounge chair from the corner and brought it to my knees, giving it a little push of encouragement. I allow myself to fall to the cushion, my heart sinking further into my stomach as I do. Ron remains behind me, and I can practically feel the tightness with which he grips the back of the chair. He radiates tension, which makes me flinch away subtly. He must notice, because a moment later he's retreating to a distant corner to observe.

"Mr. Zabini is an...acquaintance of Mr. Malfoy, as I'm sure you were able to gather during his supervised visits to Brockington."

"A Death Eater," I say firmly, moving to lock eyes with the tall man. His eyes are alight with delight as I say those words.

"Quite." He says this with a flash of a smile, which causes Harry to scoff. The Death Eaters are Harry's biggest target, however he'd been unable to pin one of any merit down under any concrete evident until his detainment of Draco Malfoy. Having been high in the hierarchy, Malfoy was a catch that made headlines and boosted all other Organized Crime investigations. The reason I'm a target of his wrath in this moment is clear now. Having his biggest capture yet escape with what he assumes to be my help while having a known Death Eater in the room in front of him is almost too much to ask of the man.

"So why are you here?" I ask, scrunching my eyebrows at him. "Surely you're as daft as you seem to be since you're so willing to walk into an office full of people who would gladly lock you away, and then offer yourself up."

Zabini's eyes flash with anger at my words, but his voice remains as smooth as his caramel skin.

"I'm ready to be rid of this world, Granger. I allowed myself to be pulled into the chaos as a child, following my friends with some misguided attempt at loyalty. But it wears on me, as it wears on all." He seems to lose his posture for a moment as his shoulders hunch forward with resignation. "I was not ready for the things I would see, the things I would have to do. The things I would watch my friends do." His eyes rise again, and this time they blaze with determination. "I've already watched my closest friend lose his mind and soul to this cursed adventure into darkness. It is time for it all to end."

I stare at him for a moment, completely bewildered at his words. End?

"Mr. Zabini has agreed to help us infiltrate the Death Eaters in exchange for immunity," McGonagall interjects firmly, resuming the air of authority in the room. "He will help an undercover officer access internal information from the group and bring it down."

"And this involves me how?" I ask, fall back to rest fully in the chair, exhaustion settling in already. "I'm to review the information gathered?"

"Not quite," she says with a small smile. "Doctor, we _will_ indeed need you to analyze information from individuals close to those in charge. But you will not be getting it second hand."

"Draco is close to the center," Zabini jumps back in, his words quick with intensity. "He's in deep, inner circle. He's in charge of keeping the younger members in line, and reports directly to the man in charge these days. There are few of us he trusts, and even then he never shares anything he knows. Someone needs to _get_ that close to him."

"And you're one of the few to ever accomplish any sort of honesty with him," McGonagall concludes. "He's formed an attachment to you."

"An unhealthy one," Zabini adds with a shake of his head. "But it's a start."

If ice was starting to form in my veins before, they are completely frozen now. My heart has stopped as the implications of their words begin to settle about me like a layer of heavy snow. I'm drowning under it. I suddenly feel warm hands on my shoulders and I bring myself to glance up into the softest color of blue I've ever seen, the most familiar and safe thing in the world.

"They need you, Hermione," Ron says with a forced smile. "It has to be you."

I shake my head at him and he frowns, so I drop my head to shake it at McGonagall as well. "You're all batty," I manage to gasp out. "I'm a psychiatrist, not a field investigator. I only consult here. And my privileges here have been revoked."

"I'm acutely aware," McGonagall says dryly. "But you're smart and you're resourceful. It you weren't so good in your field of study we would have encouraged this a long time ago. Your talents are wasted on Brockington. If I'd thought it would have made any difference, I would have offered you a job after your first consult."

"They'll never fall for it," I say, grasping onto the shred of reason I've found. "I'm too well known, and they know who I'm friends with. They'll know exactly what's happening."

"But that's the glorious bit," Zabini says with a triumphant smile. "They've already created an in for us to get you to him. To get them to accept you."

"Zabini has made us aware of a plan to infiltrate our intelligence," Harry says, frustration seeping through his words as he leaves the window the stride angrily back and forth across the area rug in the middle of the spacious office. "Apparently we've been too good at identifying and getting information from some of their more prominent guys, and we've failed to cover a few tracks." He bites out this last bit, his distaste at admitting his mistakes clear. "They know we're on to them, and we've had to pull our undercover men. We're stuck."

"So they made up a plan of their own." Ron's voice is clear as he strides around the chair to look at me. "To seduce a woman from the National Crime Agency so they can handle the...leaks in information."

"The plan was to find a lackey," Zabini interjects. "A secretary that may have access to some sensitive files, an assistant jilted by a boss...someone whose allegiance is easily waived. It was assumed that would be the highest that could be penetrated. But if someone with more access were to wander into their path...well, the one to snag her and weasel such information would be well rewarded. And with Brockington and these swots," he says, throwing a thumb toward Harry and Ron, "publicly condemning you for what happened, it's easy for them to assume you're broken and tossed aside. Easy pickings."

 _"I'll find you, Granger. And when I do, your life as you know it is over."_

"And you want to take advantage of that," I say, the plan suddenly making sense to me, as much as it terrifies me. "They'd settle for a peon, I'm sure, but to get a jilted high level consultant of the NCA..."

"Exactly," McGonagall says, leaning back in her chair with an exhausted frown. "It's the perfect predicament to find ourselves in."

"And what makes you think they'll accept me as the one to seduce?" I ask. "It's not like I'm the most promising candidate."

"Draco's in Voldemort's good graces," Zabini says, looking to his nails and picking a piece of dirt out from under one. "His imprisonment is seen as a sign of being loyal to the group. Voldemort now trusts Draco and his family, believing they would never lead him astray. Combine that with Draco's unhealthy obsession with you," Zabini lifts his eyes to me again," and we have the perfect poison."

"And Zabini will be assisting you along the way," McGonagall says firmly, her eyes flashing to Zabini in warning. "The condition of his agreement with our office is full cooperation and assistance to our efforts."

"And I'm meant to do what?" I ask, glancing between the two of them. "Be Malfoy's puppet?"

"Weren't you already?" Harry asks, his tone cold. Harry lets out a small growl of frustration, crossing his arms and walking to stare out the window as Ron flinches at her words and his friend's temper _._ "Falling to his every suggestion? McGonagall showed us the case files last night. We heard the recordings. It's obvious you two developed a bond."

 _"You really are quite protective, aren't you Doctor?"_

 _"I believe every person deserves respect, and those with the ability to ensure that are duty-bound to do so."_

 _"So no more electricity for my little old noggin?"_

 _I can't help but give his goofy grin a returning smile. "No. No more."_

"I'm not sure what you mean, Harry," I retort coldly, rising from my chair to again challenge him.

"You go against the advice from every other doctor in that godforsaken place," he huffs, "just because it might hurt him a little. Stopping therapies other doctors prescribed, forgoing restraints. If any other doctor did that they'd have been kicked off his case, but they respect you there. You allowed yourself to be so easily manipulated by him. Do you need to be reminded he's killed people? Even now you seem excited to get back to him."

"Excited?" The horror in my voice is prominent, I've made no effort to hide it. "You think I'm excited? I'm terrified. He's terrifying."

And thrilling. Intriguing. Dangerous. Addictive. Consuming.

"Which is why," Harry says, "I can't understand why you insisted on continuing to treat him after-"

"Enough!" Ron's shoulders are heaving as he takes us in, his eyes darting between us. "We said we'd never speak of it again. I don't want to hear about it, I don't want to think about it again." He rounds on Harry then. "You need to learn to trust me and my judgment, mate. I am completely aware of what happened in that place, and Hermione and I don't need you throwing it in our faces."

Harry's expression falls as he raises his hands defensively. "I'm not trying to throw it in your face-"

"And you," Ron says, turning on me. His voice is gentle but firm as he says, "You need to stop acting like you had no idea what was happening. I love you, but you're not daft. You understood exactly what was happening, and you let it continue. I get how it could happen, and that's why I forgive you. But you need to accept that it causes a rift."

As much as I try to fight them, the tears well in my eyes at his words. Because they are the words I've been waiting for. The words that condemn me. That places clear as day in front of me what I've allowed to happen. All I've ever wanted in my adult life was to spend it with this wonderful, goofy man. But now, everything feels disjointed and a bit too vanilla. Now I need...more. And I'm still struggling to find a way to tell him without losing him completely.

"I'm afraid I must depart," Zabini says curtly, reaching for his coat that hangs off the corner of McGonagall's desk. "My presence here will be noted before too much longer now with the number of staff in the building."

"The door at the back," McGonagall says, waving a hand at a wall before pressing a simple button on her desk. There's a click sound and a panel of the wall slides slightly backward to reveal a disguised exit. "It will let you out without notice."

Zabini nods as he places his hat on his head, striding away as he quickly shoves his arms into his coat. He's nearly to the covert door when he turns and stares directly at me. His eyes flash with the same cruel joy I've seen on my Crookshank's face when he's chasing a bug across my kitchen floor.

"I'll be in touch, Doctor. For now, live your life. I'll pull you in when we're ready."

And then he's gone.

"Doctor." McGonagall's voice pulls my head back around. She's gathering up papers and distributing them into two folders, which she hands to both Ron and Harry. "Obviously this needs to remain as covert and believable as possible. For now, if any of your close family or friends enquire as to your work we would like you to inform them that, due to the recent developments at Brockington, you will be on a hiatus from assisting this department. There's no need to make the Death Eaters any more suspicious than they already will be by conducting regular meetings."

I stiffen in my chair, turning to glance at Harry who's studiously avoiding eye contact. Ron's already shuffling through the papers in the file, examining each of them so closely I know he's attempting to avoid my eye contact as well now.

"Director," I start, suddenly hesitant of my words. "Mr. Malfoy...we did not end things on a good note. My association with Ron will be a...well, it will not endear me to him by any means. I'm not willing to let this compromise my personal life again."

McGonagall's eyes go soft now as she gives me a pitying smile. "Hermione, I want to congratulate you and Mr. Weasley on your engagement. I was thrilled when he told me his plans last week. Truly, it is a wonderful thing. Young love is so precious, I will always advocate for it's protection. But this is a moment you cannot... _we_ cannot afford to let this pass. I want to be clear. You are _not_ to engage in sexual intercourse with him, or any other illegal activities even if it feels like you have no other choice. Working undercover does not permit you to break the law. The goal is to merely gain his trust. That being said, I will discuss the issue further with Mr. Weasley this afternoon to see if we can reach a resolution."

Confused, I look to Ron. He won't make eye contact, and his expression is pained. Something's happening I'm not understanding.

"Ron?"

He turns to me and I can tell he's schooling his expression into one that's far more lighthearted that he appears. "Don't worry about it, love. Go to out and relax and I'll bring by some dinner to your flat. We can talk then, yeah?"

I can tell a dismissal when I hear one. Ron turns away and is back to studiously ignoring me, flipping through the papers in his file again. I stand and look to Harry, whose back is to me as he's looking out with window once more. Sighing, I stand and straighten my skirt, smoothing out the wrinkles for something to do before I drag my eyes back to McGonagall. She's looking at me with the sad smile still.

"Go on, Hermione," she says gently. "Zabini's visit with us is confidential and not to be known outside this room. All must appear normal. Return to your life. A chance meeting with be arranged at a later date."

I nod and give Harry and Ron one last searching glance which they both ignore. With a final sigh I walk to the door, collecting my bag from floor on my way out. I don't bother trying one more time to gather the attention of my two friends. Whatever happened at Brockington, it's permanently broken us somehow. I just hope, once this is all over, I'll have the chance to repair it in some way, whatever that is.

* * *

.x.x.x.

* * *

Whew. This is a big daddy of a chapter. This was originally "Chapter One" but when I started reworking the story I decided there was more of it I wanted to tell that comes before this meeting. It's been through several revisions, so I hope it continues to read true after all the edits.

Speaking of edits, this story is unbeta'd so any mistakes are mine, and mine alone. If you catch anything major, let me know.

Thank you to everyone who took the time to review last week. This early update is a special thank you to all of you :)


	6. Chapter 6

Breaking Heaven

Chapter 6

 _April 23rd_

 _Session 3_

The incident with the ECT treatment shakes me more than I would have expected it to. Reviewing the notes from Dr. Lockhart and the nursing staff, it's clear that the ECT was administered inappropriately. The settings they'd set the instruments to were much higher than appropriate for his body measurements, and there was no mention of any muscle relaxant or anesthetic being administered to ensure patient comfort. And while Malfoy had passed all of the benchmarks during the neuro tests performed throughout the rest of the week, he couldn't remember my name or the name of the facility he was in. I'd filed a report with the dean that afternoon regarding Lockhart's egregious violation of protocol, but I have yet to hear anything more from the dean or Lockhart on the matter.

I check in with the nursing staff the rest of the week religiously, and I'm unable to sleep each night when I return home until I call back to the staff again to confirm Malfoy's status remains the same. No other heart issues are reported, and his memory continues to improve over the course of the week. He eats the offered food well, but the nurse do say his muscles continue to show signs of weakness.

I rise early and dress quickly this morning, eager to get back to the office. Ron grumbles about being woken so early, but quickly goes back to sleep without much more being said. He's used to my early comings and goings, something he'd been told early on to get used to if he was going to sleep over.

I pester the nursing staff again as soon as I arrive and they inform me he is still sleeping late, much as he has every other morning since his ECT "treatment." So I make my way down to my office, telling the staff to alert me when he's awake.

Two hours later I'm still sitting here at my desk, pouring over journals regarding modern misuse of ECT and reading emails from other doctors who've helped patients recuperate from inappropriate use. And I've found that while confusion and temporary memory loss are common even with properly administered ECT, there are more severe issues such as torn muscles and ligaments, and even heart damage when the proper procedure isn't followed. I place an order for a doppler to be done to ensure his heart muscles don't appear to be damaged, even though the EKG readings through the night came back normal.

It's when I scroll to the nutrition page of his file that I'm well and truly pissed. "Basic nutrition only. Ordered by Doctor Halper." I recognize Doctor Halper as the last doctor to have overseen Malfoy's care before he was assigned to me. Basic nutrition is when we order a patient to receive only enough food for life-sustaining calories. It's usually ordered for those patients suffering from eating disorders during their transition periods. Switching to the session notes, I select the file for Dr Halper's sessions last month. Finding the entry from the day the nutrition orders were entered, I find the notes that make my blood boil.

" _Patient continues to be uncooperative during sessions. Patient to be placed on basic nutrition to decrease comfort and prompt more insightful sessions."_

So, basically they were denying him substantial food in an effort to make him cooperate. Which I find absolutely abhorrent. We are responsible for the care of these humans, and to abuse that trust and responsibility is completely unacceptable. The first thing I do is send a message to the nutrition staff and carbon copy the dean, inquiring as to why this order was approved and why it hadn't been reverted since Dr. Halper's departure from the facility, or at the very least following the maximum period of time basic nutrition can be in effect before a doctor must recertify it with the approval of the facility nutritionist.

Then, I whisk out of my office to the service elevator, which I take to the fifth floor where the patient meals are prepared. I drum my fingers over my crossed arms, fighting to keep my anger in line. I remind myself that the staff I'm about to encounter have little to nothing to do with this drastic abuse of power, but I'm still irked by the idea that _someone_ should have realized something was wrong and said something. The elevator bell dings as the doors part, and I stop off into a small vestibule which leads directly onto the kitchen. The staff in the kitchen are busy at work preparing the morning meals, but I'm about to put a real wrench in their schedule.

"Excuse me," I snap loudly, and all eyes flick to me as hands stop. "I'm looking for the meal of Draco Malfoy in room 745B."

I brandish my identification badge for a moment to emphasize my proclamation, and the bustling room quickly goes quiet. Feet shuffle and people flip through their lists of assigned patient meals, then a small pale hand comes into the air with a soft, "Here," floating across the room.

I stride over to the hand, which is attached to a fairy-like girl with soft blonde hair and wide green eyes. She holds up the small slip with Malfoy's name scrawled across the top with the basic nutrition items listed below.

One egg. Half a slice of toast, and four carrot sticks. Skim milk. No tea or juice. No yogurt.

I snatch the paper out of her hand, striding over to a small desk in the corner where a woman stands with a clipboard, glaring at me over the top of her thick glasses. It's Serena Jills, the supervisor for the kitchen staff. She reports directly to the facility's nutritionist, and therefore shall be the target of my wrath this morning.

"Dr. Granger," she says tersely. "I assume you didn't think your rather pointed email was sufficient enough?"

Glaring, I slam the paper down on her desk. "No, Jills, I don't. And I'm going to follow up with the dean this week regarding this drastic violation of protocol. This man's care has been neglected in more way than one, and I'm here to ensure this particular offense ends now."

Jills lifts a lip to me in contempt as she says, "New orders would have been clear enough, Doctor. There's no need to come slamming into the kitchen and disturbing my staff."

"This," I say, setting down the paper and jabbing a finger into the printed words, "ends this exact moment. Not at dinner, not at lunch, not at bloody tea time. _Now._ Make him something appropriate, for fuck's sake."

Jills gives me her most scathing glare as she says, "We can't make special meals for certain patients, Granger. He will have what the other patients are receiving this morning if you are choosing to end the restricted nutrition."

"You will today," I say, taking a step back from the table and lifting my shoulders. "Feed him with the others for lunch, but I expect a god damn gourmet meal for this morning as an apology for this egregious error on the nutrition department's end. And I expect a call when it's ready, as I will deliver it to him myself."

Jills opens and closes her mouth a few times, but I turn sharply on my heels before she can form a retort. Half an hour later my phone beeps an alert, and a plate of warm pancakes with bacon, scrambled eggs, and a large glass of milk on a tray waiting in the kitchen. Jills is nowhere to be seen, but the staff avoid my eyes as they complete the last of the morning meals. Knowing that—as much as he would enjoy it—there's no way Malfoy's stomach will be able to handle large amounts of sugar, I remove the syrup packets from the tray before striding out of the room with a small "thank you" to the kitchen staff.

My phone beeps again just as I step off the elevator on Malfoy's floor in medical observation, a notice from the nurses indicating he's awake again. The timing couldn't have been more perfect if I'd planned it that way. I let the nurses know I have his breakfast, and besides a few curious expressions they show me to his room without incident.

He's sitting up in his bed, however both wrists are still restrained to the bed frame. A nurse steps in beside me with the device to detach the restraints, a guard following behind her. She nervously approaches Malfoy, who gives her a wicked smile. His hair looks even more unkempt and greasy than before, his eyes more hollow than I remember them being. But his pure delight at the knowledge the nurse is scared of him makes him light up from the inside. I almost smile at the simple happiness he seems to be feeling, no matter how inappropriate it may be. His silver eyes flicker to me with surprise and a hint of delight, as if he's a cat and his favorite toy mouse just walked in the room.

"Dr Granger." He says my name softly, and for a minute I think he's trying to be cute until I realize his voice is probably still hoarse from the strain the ECT put on his vocal cords. "How thrilling you could join us."

"I'm going to remove one hand so you can eat, Mr. Malfoy," the nurse says with a slight waver in her voice. "This guard here is going to be in the room while the restraint is removed. Please don't make him have to contain you again."

Malfoy flashes her a rather charming smile as he says in his scratchy voice, "Wouldn't dream of it."

I set the tray down on the small table beside his bed, watching the nurse closely. She slides a small key-like device into the plastic, pressing until the cuff snaps to release his hand. Malfoy quickly raises his hand up, shaking it and stretching his fingers. His expression remains neutral, but I can tell he's thrilled when the nurse startles at his sudden movement. She gets out of the room quickly, shouting, "Twenty minutes," over her shoulder as she does.

"Jumpy things, aren't they?" Malfoy says as he surveys me, his eyes raking up and down me. "What brings you to my humble abode, Dr. Granger?"

"So you remember my name now?" I ask, reaching to push the table closer to his bedside and swiveling the surface to hover over his bed. I'm annoyed the nurse didn't ensure he was settled before she left, but I also know Malfoy has brought this on himself with his misbehavior. "Last night I was told you didn't.

"Concerned?" He asks this with a grin, his eyes flashing with mischief. "Never fear, dear Doctor. I've been told my brain is no more damaged now than it was before." His eyes lazily glance at the tray and away, then suddenly darts back again as he registers the meal on his tray. "What's this?" he asks with a frown.

"When I was reviewing your file, Mr. Malfoy, I came across Dr. Halper's nutrition orders from two months ago. I have rectified the issue, it shouldn't be a problem anymore."

His eyes are accusing as they snap to mine, his silver eyes burning. "I don't need any favors," he spits at me. His venom surprises me, making me step back. I was under the impression his aggressive stage had passed yesterday, but a part of it obviously still lingers. "Coming in and acting all 'good cop' isn't going to make me spill my guts to you. So you can stop trying so hard."

How _dare_ he? I can feel my face turning red with anger, which I try to rein in as quickly as possible before I lose my professional demeanor. It's not as if I expected him to say thank you, but I wasn't prepared for the hostility. And it makes me want to snatch the tray away like a hurt child.

Slowly, I manage to work out something resembling a civil statement. "This isn't a ploy, Mr. Malfoy. I find denial of nutrition to be a violation of my oath as a doctor. This has nothing to do with our sessions."

Malfoy tuts at me, his lips turned up in a sinister smile as he says, "Ah, ah, Dr. Granger. We promised no lying."

"My promise remains intact," I snap. "Think what you want, Mr. Malfoy. But I think you'll find I'm nothing if not fair."

He doesn't say anything in response, just holds my eyes with his own. The longer he stares, the more convinced I am that there is far more to this man than he's willing to let anyone see. Behind his bravado, there's a twisted up bit of him that's been wrung out and spun around during his time here. And for the first time, I'm worried whether there's enough left for me to salvage.

"Enjoy your meal, Mr. Malfoy," I say, turning sharply on my heel. "I'll see you at our session next week."

And he still says nothing, and I don't look back.

* * *

"You're in a foul mood tonight," Ron says with a huff over the phone after I snap at him for easily the fifth time tonight. "What's got your knickers in a bunch?"

"Charming, Ronald," I snap again, placing yet another mailed advertisement in the kitchen rubbish bin. "I told you about my day. Is it a surprise I'm irritable?"

"Lockhart pisses you off all the time." He says it with a snort, as if the idea of an incompetent doctor is funny. "Why is this time so different?"

"It's not just Lockhart," I growl. "It's that whole damn place. We all took an oath to protect our patients, and it seems like all of them just like to play with their patients like it's a game. Is it any surprise the patient is dangerous, when they keep halfway starving him and zapping his brain? I've fought using ECT treatment at Brockington since my arrival because _no one_ seems to be educated in their administration. But they still make it so easy to prescribe. They don't even have to get approval from the dean, or patient consent. They just do whatever they damn well please without any repercussions."

Ron pauses for a minute, then says sheepishly, "Remind me what ECT stands for again?"

I can't do it. I cannot hold it back anymore. I press the phone to my chest and let out a shriek of frustration, loud enough I'm certain my neighbors are now going to be worried about my well-being. I love Ron. But sometimes it feels like he never pays any attention. And it's been worse lately with as busy as he's been at work. It's like the further our careers progress, the less we pay attention to each other.

"Hermione?" he sighs. "Did you just press the mouthpiece into something so I couldn't hear you scream? You forget I've seen you do it with your mother too."

I huff, and bring the phone back up to its proper position on my face. "ECT is Electroconductive Therapy. Shock therapy."

"And that's bad?" he asks carefully, as if he's worried I'm going to yell at him again.

"To most other doctors it's not if it's done correctly, and as a last means of treatment when traditional methods fail," I say, leaving the kitchen to head toward my bedroom, suddenly exhausted. "It causes the patient to have a seizure, and it seems to fix them. Although doctors still don't know _why_ it helps, which should be warning enough. It's really only used in cases of depression, although some doctors use it to treat schizophrenia and prolonged manic phases in bipolar disorders that don't respond to medication, and even then the results are so erratic it's hard to give them much credit." I'm aware my tone is clipped and terse, bleeding over from the conversations I've already had with the dean and the board several times about the misuse of ECT within Brockington. "The fact it's being used on my patient, who we haven't been able to get a concrete diagnosis or treatment on, is unacceptable."

"Look, Hermione," Ron says, his voice suddenly becoming muffled as the background noise increases. "I'm sure if everyone else has signed off on this it's fine. You overthink things, love. The dean got to where he was because he's a smart guy. If he feels like this treatment is okay, should you really be fighting him on it? I just don't want to see you get in trouble for causing problems."

My blood sings in my ears as I fight to hold back all of the nasty retorts that want to spill over my lips. But the noise behind him is getting louder, and I sigh as I realize our conversation is coming to a close sooner than I want. I need to tell him exactly how wrong that line of thinking is, but there's no way it's happening tonight.

"How late will you be out?" I ask, my whole body deflating.

I hear Ron laugh and say something to someone away from his phone, and then he's back. "Neville's saying we'll be done by midnight, but I have a feeling Seamus and Dean are going to keep this thing going as long as we can. Do you want me to come over after?"

Ron's at a bachelor party for a friend who know from secondary school. Neville was always a bit of an awkward soul, although I always found him sweet and endearing. He'd grown into himself by graduation, and we were all relieved when he found a nice girl who didn't try to take advantage of him. I'm not surprised Neville plans to cut the night short already, but I know the rest of the guys are going to make him go until the sun comes up.

"No." My words are firm. There's no way I can handle him tonight, not with the horrid mood I've taken to. "I'll already be asleep, there's no use in you making the trip here. I'll just see you tomorrow."

"Alright," he says, somewhat dejectedly. "I love you, Hermione."

Normally those words make my heart flutter in my chest, even after all these years. But tonight, with my ego so badly bruised, they fall flat. But true to our routine, I say, "I love you too, Ron. Don't be a total idiot tonight, okay?"

He laughs and says, "No promises," and then hangs up.

I want to throw my phone across the room as soon as it goes dead, but cooler heads prevail and I set it down on my bedside table gently, plugging it into the charger. With an open night ahead of me to myself, I plop myself down on the bed and gather my thick, wild brown curls into a hasty bun on top of my head before grabbing a book off the table. I don't often get to read for pleasure, as my job typically requires me to keep up on studies and recent research often enough that my eyes are too exhausted to read for fun. But tonight, I know it's the only thing that's going to distract me from this horrible, sinking feeling in my stomach.

And after a while, it finally does the trick. My mind and eyes are bleary a few hours later as I set the book back on the table and reach for the small lamp to flick it off. I take one last look at my phone before closing my eyes, expecting to see some sort of apology from Ron now that he's had time to realize what an ass he was. But there's nothing.

And as I dream, I don't see sparkling blue eyes full of joy and mischief. Instead, my dreams are full of sharp grey eyes that cut me to ribbons, setting me free.

* * *

.x.x.x.

* * *

A little shorter chapter this time, but this sets us up for a change in their relationship moving forward and I just felt like this was a good place to cut this chapter off at.

Thank you SO much, everyone, for your kind words on the last chapter. I can't even tell you how much I appreciate them. I adore this story so very, very much and I'm so glad to know other people love it as much as I do.


	7. Chapter 7

Breaking Heaven

Chapter 7

 _October 6th_

 _After Brockington_

Having to wait to see Ron tonight is agony. I make a stop to Brockington to collect my laptop and a few research articles I've been saving for when I have a spare moment to read them, which I suddenly find myself chock full of. Afterwards, at Ginny's insistence, we go out for a bit to do a bit of shopping. She must really pick up on my dejected mood, as she lets me putter around the bookstore for nearly two hours before she drags me away to a nearby sporting store for a new set of spikes for her cleats. And when she leaves to go to practice with the Harpies a few hours later, I go to the library to attempt to distract myself with research to keep my mind sharp for the return to work I hope I'll eventually get to make.

I'm not sure what took place in McGonagall's office when I left, but I'm sure it's nothing I would have enjoyed hearing. While Harry would never purposely sabotage my relationship with Ron, I wouldn't put it past him to ignore any obstacles being placed in front of us. Especially when one of those obstacles is his boss.

 _"I will discuss the issue further with Mr. Weasley this afternoon."_

Logic reminds me there are several things McGonagall would want to discuss with my Fiancé in regards to the task they're asking me to undertake. Winning the trust of another man isn't easy when there's another one waiting for you. It would make sense that McGonagall would want to establish protocols of some sort to dictate behavior for the duration of the assignment. But why send me away and not discuss it with me as well? Why wait until I'm gone?

I return home around five, my bag falling to the floor with a loud thunk that echoes through my small flat. When I'm stressed, I hoard books. Between my haul from the bookstore and loans from the library, my back is aching from carrying the canvas bag down four blocks. I slowly empty the bag, placing my purchases on my already overcrowded bookcase, and the borrowed ones on my nightstand. When I'm done I realize I've been sitting long enough that my body is restless to move. And so I begin to pace.

My poor, irritable orange tabby cat is decidedly annoyed with me as the night wears on. His long, bottlebrush tail swishes aggressively as he eyes my frantic, nervous movements through the small flat with distaste. Crookshanks has had a rather dour attitude since the moment I laid eyes on him in that sad little shelter on the outskirts of my parent's town. It was summer break from secondary school, and so I was there to volunteer to keep myself busy. His face is slightly squished, as if he'd run his face into the front of the cage one too many times in a desperate bid for escape. I'm not sure if it was the "Longest Feline Resident" sign or the fact I saw something of myself in him that made me do it, but I walked out of that building with him and a burden of supplies in my arms. He's been my companion ever since, utter contempt for me and all.

Crookshanks is one of the few personal possessions I brought with me in my move to London after finishing university. My moving boxes consisted mostly of books, some clothes, and a few other sentimental items. The flat was a bit pathetic on a comfort level at first, like a poor librarian lived here instead of a young adult female with a steady boyfriend who stayed over frequently. But Ron had helped me make the place cozy, bringing over a few items sent by his mother to make the place more homey. We'd had fun exploring thrift shops and bargaining with the sales clerks for the best deals on everything from silverware to the antique lamp that sits in on the corner table of my small living room. It's hard to look around this place and find something that doesn't remind me of Ron. And I'm starting to realize that may be the root of my discomfort in my own home lately, which is concerning to say the least.

I've been apprehensively pacing my flat for twenty minutes when Ron finally arrives. The candles I'd lit earlier to soften the dark air that lately seems to haunt me everywhere I go lately have nearly extinguished themselves they've been burning so long. The ice in the wine bucket is nearly melted and I'm decidedly annoyed at his late appearance. Crookshanks is even less pleased, knowing the arrival of his competitor for my affections means he'll receive quite a bit less attention than he feels adequate. He stands from his bed on top of the window-side bookcase and stretches with a mighty arch of his back, glowering at Ron. He yowls his disapproval before leaping down and stalking away into my bedroom, his tail held high in indignation.

"I'm sorry," Ron says immediately as he enters the flat, throwing my door open with a bit of a bang in his haste and sounding slightly out of breath from getting the bags to my floor.

His red hair is heavy and dark with the rain that's been flowing at a constant downpour for the last hour to match my mood. He turns to close the door behind him and I step up to him, ready for my usual greeting kiss and to help him with the two full bags he has slung over one arm and his workbag that hangs over the other shoulder. But instead, he brushes past me as he turns, distributing the bags containing our dinner out on the island counter while decidedly ignoring me.

"I ran a bit late at the office, and I forgot to call ahead on the food so I had to wait once I got there—"

"It's fine," I say sharply, scooting around him with a small huff. "I'm just hungry is all." I reach for the cupboards to start gathering plates and utensils, and I can feel my shirt slide up to expose a patch of skin just above my jeans. Ron usually always takes advantage of any exposed skin, to run his fingers along it deliciously at every moment. More meals have gone cold than I care to admit because of his distraction at a bit of skin, but it's never been something I've complained about. But tonight, he either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

"I imagine," he says, opening one of the boxes to begin serving out the food on plates I place in front of him, a sirloin for him and a veggie pasta salad for me. It's from my absolute favorite restaurant, which I'm hoping is a good sign. "Ginny said they let you in to Brockington to get a few items from your office. Was it a madhouse?"

I groan, ignoring his terrible play on words and reaching for the wine glasses now with the urgency with which one grasps for water after a miserable run in the heat. I need alcohol. Now.

"Terrible. Police all over interviewing everyone, the patients are out of their mind with stress due to the lockdown. No one is allowed outside of their rooms until they've sorted everything out and the change in their schedule has them all a bit more barmy than usual. There was no getting any work done for the staff and the more delicate patients are going to require months of extra time just to overcome the stress of today."

Ron flinches, placing the second baked potato on my plate before grabbing the corkscrew from the drawer at his hip and handing it to me immediately before I even have to ask. I give him a little smile, appreciating how he always seems to know what I need without me having to ask. "Yes," he says with a frown, "I'd imagine it's going to take a while to overcome."

I'm generous as I pour our glasses, knowing the day that's ended requires a full glass for recovery, and the discussion I can feel looming on the horizon will call for a bit extra. I'd already changed into my lounging clothes before he arrived, sure we'll be up late discussing what's to come. "It will take time, of course, for things to settle in. Figuring out how they managed to escape will certainly help some of the tension. It's not knowing how they were able to break out that requires the lockdown. Once they've isolated the issue I'm sure it will be resolved quickly."

Ron wrinkles his nose and he gathers our plates and heads to the small table in the corner of the kitchen, the one we purchased just for these such occasions when we have a moment to meet up for dinner. "Yes, well...I suppose that means work will go easier for you, then. When you return, I mean," he adds in response to my confused expression.

I stop for a moment at his words, a bit of the wine in both our glasses tipping over the rims at my quick halt of momentum. I'm faintly aware of the feel of the cool liquid on my bare toes as I ask, "What on earth does that mean?"

Ron shakes his head and comes over, seizing one of the glasses and grabbing me by the elbow attached to my now empty hand. He leads me gently over to the table as he says, "There was a bit of information gleaned that seems to have solved the mystery of Malfoy's escape."

I allow him to ease me to my chair, staring at him all the while in confusion. "Well," I insist, a bit of annoyance edging into my voice despite my best efforts to keep things light and simple tonight. "Don't hold back."

Ron hesitates for a moment as he drops into the chair opposite me, then says, "Well, after a more thorough examination of the backgrounds of the officers responsible for guarding Malfoy, it appears there may have been some, well...falsified information offered during the hiring process. The two guards who have disappeared with Malfoy and the two other men appear to have been on the payroll with the Death Eaters."

Shock slams into me at his words. Death Eater guards? The thought is chilling when I think of all the times I've been alone with just a couple of guards in between patients. Even more chilling is the idea that I was far more comfortable and at ease knowing they were there outside the room when I was alone with Malfoy, one of the highest ranking young Death Eaters there is.

"What! How could that happen?" I demand, my voice a bit high as my anxiety leaks into it.

"Well," says Ron, reaching for his knife and fork to tuck into his steak. "Apparently, they missed it during the screening of the new hires early last year. I believe that was when Brockington was short staffed?"

I nod, lifting my wine glass to my lips to take a healthy gulp. I let the Cabernet Sauvignon melt over my tongue and down my throat before I can bring myself to say, "Yes, that was when I began seeing patients as an attending. Several different people of different positions left us all at once. They had several vacated positions they were trying to fill rather quickly. I'm not certain of how the hiring process was conducted, though."

Ron nods enthusiastically, his mouth full with a large bite of meat for the moment. I give him a half-smile, relieved to see him acting like his old self for the first time in weeks. It took me years to correct the bad habit he had of speaking with his mouth full. I've only recently begun to accept that I'll never be able to truly rid him of all of his distasteful table manners. I'd like to take this as a good sign, but my dear Ronald would eat at his own mother's funeral if he had a plate of food in front of him. He's never been one to turn down food, no matter what emotions he's experiencing.

I take the moment of silence to examine my partner without the pressure of contributing to a conversation. Ron has always been an overall confident man, especially following his departure from his family's country home to come with me to university in the city. It's something his mother has never forgiven me for encouraging, and something I have never been able to regret. Ron is from a family of seven siblings, of which he is the youngest male. Having five older brothers was hard on him growing up, and each one had their own unique trait leaving Ron with few things to take for his own. He could never be the best of anything because his siblings had already done it, which caused him to be quite sour during our childhood. But as we grew my dear Ron learned that there are things he has to offer the world, to offer me, that have given him much in the way of confidence. And it's obvious in the way he carries himself now. He was always athletic if a bit tall and thin, but he's grown into himself with age. At twenty five he's a man now, with the broad shoulders and scruff to go with it.

But despite how much I adore his confidence, I miss the childlike glee he found so easy to experience when we were younger. He saw magic in places no one else saw it, and responded passionately to anything he found worthy of his time. You always knew what he was thinking, and his bright blue eyes always would shine with whatever emotion he was experiencing in that given moment. It was glorious and freeing and impulsive and everything I wanted to experience in life. But, like most of us have experienced, facing adulthood isn't easy, especially when your job is the catch people in a lie. And slowly but surely, my poor Ron began to see the world doesn't operate in such terms of black and white as he always thought it did. His immediate reactions became more measured, his insistence more of a suggestion. He learned how to navigate the ways of the world. And as his confidence grew, his childlike glee faded. And he lost something between the worlds of imagination and reality that I'm worried he'll never get back.

It's his eyes where I see it the most in this moment. Even several weeks ago they were brighter than they are now, and the bags underneath them are more noticeable than they were before. They're heavy with reality, so weighed down by the truth of it. And it's all entirely my fault.

"They think it was planned, to a certain extent," Ron says once he finally swallows, dragging me back to our conversation. "All of the staff leaving at once, and then suddenly the Death Eater thugs being hired. We think they started planting them there after one too many close calls with us, as a precaution. It's a common defense tactic to claim criminal insanity during murder trials, which is exactly what Malfoy went for. They didn't waste their time with any of their main guys, but sticking a couple of low-lives in there was easy enough. They got a regular supplemental paycheck to complement their guard pay and got to throw around prisoners the rest of the time on the off chance a Death Eater ended up inside. Easy enough for them."

I flinch, remembering how easily many of the guards "threw around" the patients, particularly Malfoy. Looking back, they were especially rough on him at times. That didn't really make sense if they were on Death Eater pay, which I point out to Ron between sips from my wine glass, which hasn't left my lips for several minutes. I'm surprised to see him shake his head at my deduction.

"I'm sure the guards were told to rough him up while he was there, to keep things believable. And Zabini told McGonagall that some of the other Death Eaters are put off by how valued the Malfoys are right now. I wouldn't be surprised if they got a little bonus from some of the other big guys to hit a little harder than necessary. He's lucky they didn't just try to kill him, the bastard."

The very thought makes my stomach roll. Unable to eat, I find myself pressing the fork in my wine-free hand into the baked potato in front of me, watching the mush of butter and potato ooze up between the tines. Malfoy's a dangerous member of the Death Eaters, and yet I find myself nearly without breath at the idea that he could have been so easily extinguished from this world. I wonder for the hundredth time what dark creature was awakened in me during his time in Brockington.

"Why wait so long then?" I ask, taking my turn today at refusing to meet his eyes. "Why wait until he's been there ten months?"

"I'm not sure," Ron says softly. I can hear the sound of his knife cutting through the meat again and it makes me almost sick to my stomach. Knife through flesh, the relish of another creature's pain...I find myself unable to even stomach the smell of my own food and slowly push the plate in front of me away, taking care not to draw his attention. "Maybe they were hoping he'd learn something while he was in there, or network with other prisoners. Who knows. They disappeared without a trace, which makes us think they had a plan all along for whenever they decided it was time to get out."

I shake my head, finally raising my eyes to look at him. I drop the fork to lick my fingertip and run it along the edge of the glass, enjoying the hum as it travels in lazy circles. It's a perfect, mindless distraction to keep my anxious fingers from moving. It's an instinct for those in my field, to impulsively want to write everything down during meaningful conversations for analysis later. It's a habit I thought I lost during my time with Malfoy as I found myself hardly ever able to break away from our exchange long enough to jot a note down. And so I'd used the damnedable recorder, ensuring each and every one of our exchanges was immortalized in the patient record system. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"But why wait until last night?" I find myself asking, staring at him curiously. "Why wait until that exact moment to leave?"

Ron pauses his fork's ascent to his mouth suddenly, his eyes snapping up to meet mine. His eyes are endlessly blue as he slowly places the fork on his plate and, with a gulp, reaching for his wine glass.

"You mean, why did he wait until you announced our engagement to him to decide he wanted out?"

Heavy. Oh my. My heart is suddenly so very heavy in my chest. It feels as though he's standing on it in that moment, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet to slowly crush it beneath the weight of his words. This is the moment I was waiting for, the ball dropping right between us in a crashing feat that will leave our world forever scarred.

"Yes," I manage on a breath, my voice nearly a croak as it struggles to form that one simple word.

Ron sighs, bringing the glass back up to his lips. Before he takes a drink he mutters into the crystal, "That's what I actually wanted to talk to you about, Hermione."

I freeze. My heart is somehow racing now despite the heavy weight on it. It's racing faster and faster with each passing moment as I wait for him to say more, to say anything. Because I just simply can't bring myself to be the one who pushes this conversation forward. I can see the dark path it's taking, and I want nothing to do with it.

Ron takes his time draining the entire contents of the glass before lowering it to the table and lifting his eyes to look at me again. His eyes are heavy, darkening with each passing second despite the glittering of tears in his eyes. With a sigh, he says, "We can't be engaged while this is going on, Hermione. We can't be anything, really."

And there it is. My heart disintegrates in my chest. I expect something to rise up in my lungs and out my mouth. A scream, wail, cry, perhaps even smoke and dust from the annihilation that's happened in my chest. But no matter how many times I open my mouth, nothing comes out. Not until the last time when, finally, I manage a, "What do you mean, Ron?"

Ron shakes his head and grabs the seat of his chair before lifting his weight and pulling the chair toward me until we're side by side and dropping back down. He takes one of my hands in his and brings it to his cheek, where I can feel one warm tear skate across our fingers as it falls from those beautiful blue eyes. It's the first sign he's shown of the hurt he feels, and I can suddenly feel my own tears falling at the terrible beauty of it.

"Hermione, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. I thought I could fix this somehow by forcing a commitment on you. That I could erase that day from your memory by giving you what you always wanted from me. The thought of losing you...it was enough to make me see how selfish I was being by withholding a future together from you. But now I realize even that was me being selfish. This engagement wasn't about me loving you, even though I do so much, but about me caging you so you couldn't ever escape me. And for that I'm really sorry. More sorry than I could ever say."

They burn. His words. They burn like fire on my heart, and I find myself wrenching my fingers from his in an attempt to escape the terrible ache he's inflicting on me. But my soul...I'm ashamed because there's a part of my soul that feels a little bit of freedom now at his words. Light as a bird. Like a burden has been lifted. How is it possible for the heart and the soul to be so split that they no longer recognize the needs of the other? I'm beyond broken. I am shattered. A shell of a person in this moment. Split right down the middle in a sea of regret and longing.

I'm not sure when I started doing it, but I'm pulling and twisting on the ring that has kept me so weighted down to earth these last three days in the face of so much confusion. I pull so hard that it hurts, and the sensation is a delicious moment of finite concentration. I'm yanking and tugging and crying and suddenly it's free and I'm lost. I stare at it for a moment but it feels so wrong there, trapped between the pads of my right thumb and pointer finger. I analyze the elegant movement of light passing through the small diamond before it's just too much to bear anymore.

The hand that had been holding mine is on his lap now, and I reach for it gently, placing the ring on his palm before curling his fingers around it. It vanishes from my sight and suddenly it's real and over and the darkness is closing in around me in a wave that's sure to consume me. And as my hand leaves his I realize I am well and truly lost.

I'm broken by this proclamation of his, but the logical part of my brain, the part I can never seem to detach myself from no matter how hard I try, knows it's necessary. I knew it the instant I walked into McGonagall's office yesterday, when I was told of the escape, even when McGonagall spoke today of the protection of young love...somehow, I knew this was coming. And because, deep down, I knew I didn't deserve this happy ending.

"That's it then?" he croaks. "You're not going to beg? Explain why this is all wrong? Force some logical conclusion on me that shows just how wrong I am and how right you are?"

"I suppose that would make it a true Ron-and-Hermione argument then, wouldn't it?" I ask, my voice soft and broken. "But no, Ron, I don't have anything to say. I have no logical alternative for you because there is none. I don't deserve you, and I don't deserve that ring."

"No!" Ron proclaims, seizing my hand back and placing the ring on the palm of my hand this time. "Hermione, I love you. I want to spend every day of the rest of my life with you. But McGonagall..." He places both of his hands around my closed fist now, holding the diamond of our future in between with a pressure that I'm sure rivals the one that created it. "McGonagall pointed out something important to me today, after you left. This is an opportunity we'll never get again, and one that could end up saving hundreds of lives in the process. You need to be completely focused and dedicated to your involvement with them, and you can't do that if you have me waiting in the wings for you." One of his hands abandons mine to wrap itself around my chin, pulling my face to his. His lips ghost over mine as he says, "I want you forever, but I have to let you go right now." He pulls back then and gives me a gentle smile. "Keep the ring, love. Face him, and figure out what you want. And when you're ready, _if_ you're ready, you can come back to me. But for now, I need to do what's right for you and set you free. For everyone's sake."

He stands so suddenly I nearly fall out of my chair in an effort to stay near him. It feels like every inch he moves away from me is an inch I'll never get back. He's back to me again in a moment though, during which he seizes my hair and leans me back before bending over to suddenly consume my lips with his. It's heat and desire and anger and sorrow and regret all neatly packaged into what should have been the most devastating kiss of my life if that title hadn't already been claimed. Instead it's the saddest and most bittersweet, full of salty tears that now flow easily down my face to my lips and his. They linger there as he takes his time with me. His tongue sweeps out to gently caress mine, sweet and tender like all of his kisses are. There's no possession in this kiss like there normally is. Ron likes to kiss me as if I'm his and he's reminding us both of that. This feels far too much like a careful goodbye. His hands are bunched in my hair and cupping my head as if he knows without his help I'll fall apart. It's as if he's memorizing every part of this like he'll never get it back.

But in this moment, one that feels so much like a goodbye, I realize that may very well be true. And in the time it takes me to absorb this heartbreaking information, he's gone, and I hear the ring in my palm fall to clatter on the hardwood beneath my feet. Without a backward glance, Ronald Weasley walks right out my door and my life for what suddenly feels like will be forever. And as the door shuts behind him, I can't help but remember the last time the click of a closing door felt so much like the end of all of the happiness I ever had. It feels like the day I walked out on Draco Malfoy. And the comparison makes me absolutely burn.

* * *

I'm not sure how I manage it, but somehow I'm able to grab my glass of wine and the half-empty bottle before stumbling to my bedroom. My brain is blank, something I've never experienced before in my life. In a mind that's normally examining every angle and outcome imaginable in every scenario, I have nothing in this moment. The world is just one sharp moment of pain and confusion right after the other. I make it my bedroom where the bottle and glass go to the nightstand and my body falls to the bed. Crookshanks, who had been napping in the middle of the bed just moments before, lets out a contemptuous hiss and skitters away, as disgusted with me as I am myself. I lay there for a moment collecting myself before I can bring myself to sit up and reach for the glass again, refilling it with the bottle before nursing it gently between my hands. I let the tears fall now, and I let the idea settle around me of just how well and truly I've fucked up my life in a matter of just six months.

I curse everyone in this moment. I hate Harry for his loathing of me and unwillingness lately to be a champion of my character when I need it most, McGonagall for her analytical approach to the most devastating moments of my life, and Zabini for waltzing in and tearing open wounds we just started to treat. I even find myself cursing Ron. Poor, sweet Ron who's a bit dim at times to social cues but chooses this moment to see logic and listen to reason. And I curse myself. Because of course I love Ron. I should have begged, made him see reason, anything to make him stay. But I didn't. And I didn't because I know this is what I deserve.

When the bottle is gone and I have nothing left in me to cry out I remind myself that, despite my desire to crawl into my bed and never leave it again, I still have candles burning and there remains food to be discarded. I drag myself back into the kitchen where I find Crookshanks helping himself to a bit of steak and potatoes. The fact Ron left even a small scrap of food behind is a testament to how desperately he wanted out of my flat once he said what he needed to.

"Crookshanks," I mutter, shuffling over to shoo him away. "Naughty boy."

He turns with a mouthful of Ron's last few bits of steak and gives me an annoyed growl before jumping down and stalking away to lick the juices of his sneaky meal in private. The shelter I got him from said he just turned up at the door one day, rude as can be as he strutted right into the lobby and demanded food from every employee until someone finally took pity on him and fed him a bit of canned cat food. Apparently he'd lived in the shelter for seven years bossing employees around, waiting for some poor soul to be willing to adopt him. Lucky for me, I happened to be that unfortunate person. But God help me, he's just a big enough baby to be endearing sometimes. Sadly for him, I just don't have the patience for his antics tonight.

"Damn cat," I throw at his retreating form. He gives his bottlebrush tail a little flick, letting me know he does not deign my snap worthy of acknowledgement. It's true love, really.

I make quick work of the food, promptly discarding all of it into the trash. It's easier that way, to make it disappear as if the night never happened. I clean and dry the plates and return them to the cupboard, then begin carefully washing the crystal glasses. It's all rather methodical, and the routine of it gives me something else to focus on until my mind wanders to all the times Ron has stood beside me at this sink and helped me wash the dishes before scooping me up and carrying me to the bedroom to keep me up until ungodly hours with his tender affections that we so rarely get to share due to our work schedules.

' _ **Got**_ _to share,'_ I remind myself. ' _Past tense'._

Sighing, I shut the cupboard door a bit harder than usual, enjoying the cracking sound of wood against wood that resounds through the painfully quiet space of my flat. I turn to blow out the candles only to find that the majority of the ones I have scattered around have burned themselves out. Somehow that feels so painfully accurate that I can't bear the sight anymore. I blow so hard on the remaining candles that wax flings onto the wall and I want to scream with the frustration and pain built up inside me that seems to be perfectly mirrored in the red wax now maring my clean white walls.

But instead, I hunt down my irritable tabby cat, who's finally finished his stolen meal, and scoop him up into my arms before making for bed. Normally he squirms and fights any hold I place on him but not tonight. He must sense my need for companionship because he begrudgingly settles into my arms as I make my way down the hallway back to the bedroom, his tail flickering aggressively below him as the only sign of protest from him for now. At some point I must have started crying again, because his fur is suddenly wet under my fingers as I stroke his back.

"Oh, Crookshanks," I cry, burying my face in his long, soft fur and he meows in protest. "How did everything manage to fall apart so spectacularly?"

Unfortunately the cat has no answers for me and decides at this moment he's indulged me long enough. He wiggles a bit until I deposit him on the covers, after which he strides haughtily up to the pillows before assuming his normal place on his very own plush pillow I've been forced to give up to him. Deciding my poor cat has the right idea, I use the last of my energy to remove my clothes before sliding between the sheets bare and broken.

And as I turn off the light on my end table and the room goes dark, I feel my soul shift. With Crookshanks' content purr in my ear and the soft cover of night I feel like I can accept even a small part of the events of today. What once was is over. And what will soon be...I suppose that remains to be seen. And as I slip past the world of the living to fall into dreams, I can't help but notice that somehow it feels right to face the future in the darkness.

* * *

.x.x.x.

* * *

I'm so sorry that this is such a slow burn. I promise the real Dramione is coming soon. Luckily once Draco _finally_ makes his appearance it will be very fast paced from there. We just need to get Hermione in a head space that she's ready for him!

I appreciate all of your lovely support of this story. A lot of you pointed out the similarities here to a certain DC comicbook couple. I can certainly see that comparison being drawn. But, I think as things progress you'll start to see things veer away from that particular plotline.

SO much love to all of you!


	8. Chapter 8

Breaking Heaven

Chapter 8

 _May 21st_

 _Session 7_

Yet again we're back in that cold, depressing room. Malfoy is shackled to the table as usual, and he doesn't bother to look up at me as I enter the room. Instead, he stares studiously at the bland silver surface as he has in each session since our first. I'd expected nothing more, but I'm still irritated as I sit down across from him.

We've been at this for a month now, and I've made absolutely no progress with him. I hadn't exactly expected a drastic breakthrough, but I'd thought after our agreement the first day we'd at least be able to converse. The board had my ass yesterday when I had nothing new to report to the dean, and I'm not used to being anything less than exemplary in the eyes of those in charge.

"Mr. Malfoy," I say sharply, letting the tablet fall heavily on to the table as I sit. "I'm afraid this will be our last session."

His head snaps up, his eyes accusing. His hair still hangs limply in his eyes, and I wonder when the last time was he properly was allowed to bathe. His cheeks are still hollow, despite weeks of good food, and there are heavy circles under his eyes. And his eyes...they're dim today, as if a light behind them has gone out. There's no flash of cunning, no mirth at the idea that he can try to outsmart me in a game of wits. It's gone, replaced by dull bits of grey. I've watched it happen slowly over these weeks, watched any bit of fight in him go out. And I'm not sure how to push him out of it. Ever since that day with the food he won't speak to me, and he rarely looks at me unless I say something that catches his attention. Normally he catches himself and looks down again, but today his eyes stay locked on mine.

"You promised," he croaks, as if he hasn't spoke in days, maybe even weeks. "Six months."

"Yes, well," I say with a small growl. "This is based on the decision of people far above my pay grade."

His eyebrows knit together, his lips pursing. This has him thinking, and I can see him weighing whether or not to respond or continue to sit in silence. He studies me for a moment, then commands softly, "Explain."

"There are other patients, Mr. Malfoy," I say with a sigh. "Patients who need experienced doctors working with them. I'm one of the more knowledgeable psychiatrists working in the criminal unit, and I have a specialty in behavior analysis. If you refuse to work with me, they have to reassign me. If it matters," I add, "I disagreed with their decision."

"So if I talk, you'll stay." He doesn't say it as a question, but as a statement of understanding.

"If you talk," I assert without much confidence that it will change anything, "they _may_ change their minds."

He doesn't say anything at first, but just studies me. His eyes begin to brighten as they lock with mine, and I force myself to maintain the contact. His eyes challenge me, and search for something I instinctively know I need to hide deep within myself. He raises an eyebrow as a bit of that sharpness in his eyes returns, as if he's aware of my moment of panic. I don't know what it is about him, but it feels like he's laying me bare when he looks at me. I haven't ever had another human being look at me with so much scrutiny before. Most people make assumptions about me and stop there, never looking for anything more than what I show them. But here he is, searching.

"Tell me, Doctor," he finally says, maintaining eye contact as he does. "What brought you to the decision to study psychiatry?"

"I'm not sure I understand your question, Mr. Malfoy," I say, aching to look away but keeping my eyes locked on his. I'm surprised at how relieved I am to see the life return to them. Of course, I didn't want these sessions to fail. But I know no one would blame me or think me incompetent if they did. So I know right away this relief is more about the man and less about the job.

"Most people who choose to study the mind do so because they witnessed a moment of deviant behavior they desire to understand," he says, his voice low and dark. "It scarred them, and they want to understand it. They're puzzle solvers."

"Indeed," I say, finally pulling my eyes away to stare at the manacles on his wrist. They make a shudder race down my spine, and a pool of dread collects in the pit of my stomach. "I've witnessed my fair share of deviant behavior in my life. And I'm certainly a puzzle addict."

"So why psychiatry?" he asks as he shifts back in his chair. "Why not psychology? Or a social worker? You're a behavior analyst, so you could have worked for a school or at a real hospital instead of a shit hole like this place. Why take it to such an extreme?"

"This session isn't about me, Mr. Malfoy," I say, my tone harsher than I intended it to be as panic races through my skin. He's talking now, and I will not let this train run off the tracks when we _both_ need him to cooperate today. "We are not here to discuss my life. We're here to work through yours. And if you won't show me something I can help, I'm gone."

"Perhaps learning more about you would make me more comfortable with discussing my personal life," he argues, his tone condescending. I can nearly hear the sneer in his voice, and my eyes shoot up to see he indeed is looking at me like I'm a cornered mouse yet again.

Bristling, I say curtly, "I refuse to believe everything that happens to us is someone else's fault, or that everything is based on our experiences. I think sometimes people's brains are genuinely sick, and that doctors have duty to help them. _That_ is why I went into psychiatry. Some things can't just be fixed with a few good words. Some people are just born broken, and they need medicine to fix them."

He eyes me carefully, then says, "You saw something horrible, but you don't want to think it was their fault. You want to blame it on an illness."

"Wasn't that your defense in court?" I ask, noting the way his eyes flash at my words. I swipe harshly on the tablet, pulling up his intake paperwork. "Borderline Personality Disorder, I believe, was the official diagnosis of the court-appointed doctor who performed your assessment."

He smiles widely, all of his teeth white, straight, and perfect. They don't seem to fit in the face of a man whose skin is drawn over his cheekbones, his hair unkempt. They belong to a man who has never wanted for anything, a man used to living in luxury. The man I'm certain he used to be.

"Precisely," he says coyly, raising an eyebrow. "The voices made me do it."

"Care to tell me about those?" I ask, fighting to keep the hope out of my voice. "You've led your doctors down several different paths of treatment, but I somehow doubt anyone's hit on what will really help you."

"That," he says, leaning his head back and closing his eyes, "is you operating in the assumption there's something actually wrong with me that needs to be fixed."

"You've hurt people without remorse," I say, leaning forward and jabbing a finger firmly into the table. "The average human possesses a firmer grasp on the value of human life."

"So your leading diagnosis is antisocial personality disorder," he says with a snap, his eyes flashing accusingly. "How original. You make a lot of assumptions about my past, Doctor Granger."

I fight a growl of frustration, hit with a wave of surprise and apprehension. Not many people are aware of the variety of mental illnesses beyond the usual bipolar, OCD, and schizophrenia. Clearly Malfoy has done his research, which concerns me. Why would someone like him need to be able to understand and identify a variety of mental illnesses? Or is it just that one he's familiar with?

"Then _talk_ to me, Malfoy. Tell me something I can tell the board so they don't reassign me. Because I can promise you, if they remove me from your care, you're done. You'll be in a cell, drugged out of your mind. They're done playing your games."

He huffs, then leans forward and braces his forearms on the table between us. "My childhood was perfect. My parents doted on me as their only son, their only child at all. My mother almost died giving birth to me, and it ruined any chances of me having any siblings. My family is wealthy, and I didn't lack for anything. I was spoiled beyond your wildest dreams. My father taught me I was better than everyone else, and my mother taught me I could do no wrong. I went to private school with children from families who knew and respected mine. I was the leader of my pack of friends, and we terrorized anyone who got in our way. I went to the best college my parents could buy my way in to, and I studied business. _Legal_ business, on the books and everything. Which worked out well when my father decided it was time for me to join the family business _."_

"The Death Eaters," I say, relieved I started the recording on my tablet before I entered the room. I put my hands under the table to hide the way they shake with anticipation. _Now_ we're getting somewhere. "So they sent you to business school so you could be a productive member of anti-society."

Malfoy frowns, his mouth going flat at my words. "Despite what you think, my mother fought for me to stay out of my father's line of business, which is why she insisted I go to college. She didn't want that life for me, even though she knew it was too late for my father to get himself out. And she got her wish for a while, because Voldemort didn't have any interest in a young kid. I didn't have anything good to offer him, so I wasn't worth his energy. But when those agents in McGonagall's office started playing dirty, Voldemort started demanding more from his followers, and his temper got worse. My father had been in his good graces for a long time, but a few years ago things started to wrong. A deal my father was in charge of securing went off the rails, and we lost a lot of money and a lot of merchandise. A few peons even died when it went bad."

I remember Harry and Ron telling me about the big bust they did last summer. A few Death Eaters died, and they were able to arrest two and get them in for questioning. It was the first time they'd had any concrete evidence on the Malfoy family, even though they'd been on their tails for years. And it was the moment that they started to unravel the carefully woven cloth of the Death Eater's empire.

"Voldemort wasn't happy with him," Malfoy continues, "and things began to get rocky for us. Voldemort started to realize it was time to get some new blood in, that the next generation needed to be trained to keep up with the fresh feds. My father convinced me it was my duty to the family, and I was initiated in at night before my mother could know. She was furious, she screamed and yelled at us for hours the next day until she was sick."

He trails off a bit, his mind wandering to recall that day. I take a moment to absorb what he told me. It's not at all what I expected as far as his origin story with the Death Eaters. But he's verbally confirmed a few things we haven't been able to verify about the NCA officer's statements in court, and I feel victorious to know it's probably enough to keep me on his case.

"And how exactly did they initiate you in?" I ask, my voice breathy with exhilaration.

He chuckles darkly. "Envisioning me beaten to a pulp? Hardly. It's something much more horrible, and far more lasting. But I won't tell you that today."

Scowling, I lean over and press my fingertips to my forehead. It's enough, but I'm greedy. I want more now that he's opening up and given me a nugget of that golden information. I glance up, and I can tell he's well aware of my frustration at his sudden silence on the matter. But it _is_ enough.

Just then, the door to our room swings open with a bang, revealing Dr. Lockhart followed by the dean. Lockhart looks victorious, and the dean looks concerned. Lockhart glances from me to the dean to Malfoy and back, a wild look in his eyes as a wide, charming, slimy grin covers his face.

"Ah, Miss Granger. You'll see, Rupert, it's just as I feared. This young lady is taking dangerous liberties with the patient. Guards posted outside instead of watching over them inside the room? It's a travesty. And it hasn't even produced the results she insisted it would. Clearly the board has made the right decision to remove her from his care. I can promise you I won't make the same mistake." His voice is clipped and entitled, and I want to punch that smile right off his face.

Horror washes over me as the implications of his words register. They mean to place Lockhart on Malfoy's care. He'll be dead in a week once Lockhart gets his hands on Malfoy and gets to call the shots of the treatments he receives. And while I'm sure the board and the dean would follow Lockhart's plans closely, I know they won't intervene. Not if they plan to use him as their last ditch effort to profit off of breaking open Malfoy's mind. After all, supposedly Lockhart's _genius_ breakthroughs have led to some real money coming in the doors. Why stop him now?

"Actually, Doctors," Malfoy says, leaning back in his chair casually as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. "I must admit, I've been feeling very comfortable with _Doctor_ Granger lately. We've had a lovely chat today, and I would like her to stay on as my doctor."

Lockhart's face falls, his expression completely shattered as my heart jumps in my chest. He glances at the dean, who looks guardedly thrilled at Malfoy's words. He turns back to look at me, and I lift up my tablet to show it to him.

"It's true," I say. "I have recordings."

Lockhart eyes my tablet for a moment at if it's a venomous snake, then grabs the arm holding the tablet to pull me toward him. He places the other hand on my tablet, attempting to pull it from my grip. A gold ring with an intricate _L_ is carved into it glints in the light of the room from its place on his index finger, and the pompousness of it makes me want to firmly slam my tablet into his perfect nose.

"Perhaps you should let me review the session, Miss Granger," he says firmly, still trying to remove the tablet from my hand.

I clamp down even harder on it with both hands now, and I grit my teeth in frustration. Malfoy has shot to his feet and is glaring at Lockhart with a murderous look that has me quaking in my shoes even though it's not directed at me.

But Lockhart doesn't notice, continuing, "I will sit with him as well, and see if perhaps we have any more luck between us men."

And I know immediately what he plans to do with the tablet he's so dedicated to removing from me. He's going to copy and then erase the recording from our session, and make it seem like Malfoy's confession was given to him instead of me. I absolutely cannot allow that to happen, for both Malfoy's sake and my own. I pull away from him sharply, dislodging my arm and tablet from his grip.

"It is _Doctor Granger,_ " I say with a snap, glaring at him. "And I'll thank you to no put your hands on me again."

The dean is glancing between the three of us nervously, paying extra attention to Malfoy's menacing stance. He reaches over and frantically pushes the button to signal the guards to enter. Lockhart sputters, but the dean puts his hand on Lockhart's shoulder. The dean shakes his head at Lockhart disapprovingly as the door behind him clicks with the release of a lock and bursts open with a bang. Two guards enter, looking about with their control guns drawn. Seeing Malfoy still shackled they visibly relax, shifting to a more defensive stance as they survey us with interest.

"Dr. Lockhart," the dean says firmly. "Dr. Granger's conduct is sound. The patient is restrained properly, although we do recommend guards are in the room. Considering Mr. Malfoy's preferences and her success with him today, the board will review their decision." He turns to me, his eyes hard as he looks from me to Malfoy. "Dr. Granger, you and Mr. Malfoy are done for today. Please come see me in my office before you go today. Guards, if I could have a moment-"

I blanch, not liking how ominous that sounds as I watch Lockhart, the dean, and the guards exit the room, leaving the door open behind them. I glance to Malfoy, who is still staring down Lockhart. If looks could kill, he would be a bloody pulp on the floor. And I have to fight the urge to reach across the table and pat Malfoy's still shackled hands reassuringly.

"It's fine, Mr. Malfoy," I say as the dean and Lockhart disappear from sight. "I'll see you at our session next week."

"I'll kill him," Malfoy spits, his voice all the more menacing with the grit of disuse. "He fucking _grabbed_ you. I'll rip his hand right off his arm for it."

I hastily glance down, relieved to see the tablet's microphone is pressed into my stomach and hopefully muffled enough it didn't catch that last comment from him. I quickly press the button on the screen to end the recording, then look back into the eyes staring at me with a look I can't decipher.

"It's fine," I say again, more passionately than before. "Everything will be fine. _Thank you_ for talking with me today."

He sighs as the guards come back into the room to secure his cuffs to a long chain from his wrists to his ankles, where another set of cuffs restrains his stride to jerky movements. "You better be here next week," he says, and the guards push him a bit too roughly toward the door. "Or there are going to be problems, Granger."

Normally someone would chalk his words up to fantasy, the empty promises of a man with an inflated sense of grandeur. But no, not Malfoy. When he makes promises, I don't doubt it for a moment. And I'm struck suddenly by the fact it reassures me rather than frightens me. I'm constantly surrounded by men who make empty promises in an attempt to sedate me. But not Malfoy. When he says something, I believe wholeheartedly that he means it, and will do everything in his power to make it happen.

* * *

.x.x.x.

* * *

I know that's a short one, darlings. Perhaps if I have time this weekend we'll see if I can get the next chapter up for you!

A huge thank you to those of you who have reviewed and supported this story so far. This story has been in the works for years, and this is so very near and dear to my heart. I didn't want to start posting it until I felt I had it right. My strongest hope is that all of you love my Draco and Hermione as much as I do.


	9. Chapter 9

Breaking Heaven

Chapter 9

 _October 7th_

 _After Brockington_

"Hermione! Hermione!"

The calling of my name slowly pulls me from the heavy weight of sleep, but it's the urgency of the voice that catches my attention the most. And suddenly, in a great rush of flowing red hair, Ginny Weasley is barreling into my bedroom.

"Hermione Granger," she says, more softly than she called my name before. "I'm certain I've never had the opportunity to see you in bed at such a late hour."

Sleep is still a heavy fog in my mind, so it takes me a moment to process her words. The steady beating of a tear-induced headache pounds behind my eyes as I lay on my pillow, contemplating the meaning of what she says. But when it does finally sink in, it's like a shot of adrenaline straight to my system.

"What time is it?" I gasp, throwing back the covers in alarm. I turn my head, horrified to see the clock reading as 8:47AM. Beyond late. "Oh my god!"

Ginny's suddenly on me, pressing me back into the covers. She's strong despite her feminine form, using all 5'4" of her body to maximum advantage. You'd never know that despite her quiet beauty she's a fighter, a trait she earned growing up with six older brothers. "Oh calm down, Hermione," she admonishes. "You don't have work this morning. You're allowed to sleep in for once."

I fight against her a second longer until her words finally stick in my mind. Confused, I look up into her eyes that remind me so much of the kindness I see in her brother's it makes me ache all over again. Was it really just last night that the last decent thing in my world came crashing down around me?

"My brother dearest," Ginny says with a bit of venom, leaning back now that she's certain I'll be calm, "called me and said you may need a bit of company this morning."

"You know then." If it didn't feel real before, it does now that someone else knows. And if Ginny knows... "Molly."

Ginny quickly shakes her head. "No, Mum doesn't know. Ron asked me not to tell her, he's meeting her at the Burrow this morning for a bit of brunch and he's going to break it to her then."

"The whole family will know by this afternoon then," I sigh, bringing my knees up to my chest under the covers and wrapping my arms around them, as if creating some sort of barrier over my heart will protect it from the sting somehow.

Ginny nods with a sympathetic expression. "It's not going to be easy for him, you know. Everyone will be rightly cross with him, especially Fred and George. They'll probably threaten to ask you out themselves just to spite him."

Ron has five brothers, Bill, Charlie, Percy, and then the twins Fred and George. Ron's next, followed by Ginny who's the youngest of the seven Weasley children. At one point all seven children and their parents, Molly and Arthur Weasley, were living in a rather large home that required several disjointed additions to accommodate the growth of the family. The resulting home was dubbed "The Burrow" and was the place where Harry and I spent the majority of our summers growing up. The Weasley's are a close-knit family and protect each other fiercely, and that same love and devotion was quickly extended to Harry and me as well. No one was more thrilled than Molly when Ron and I started dating, and when Ron announced his intention to propose the family got together and threw us a big party to celebrate once he popped the question. It was one of the best nights of my life, followed by easily a string of the worst.

Unfortunately, that memory is now clouded with the pain of knowing how fleeting that sort of happiness can be. While I'd pushed my fears and doubts into the back of my mind, in the background of my life things were already falling apart. The fact that the whole Weasley family would soon know what transpired makes me want to throw up right there on the bed. When I voice this to Ginny she falls to the bed beside me to wrap an arm around me.

"I'm really sorry, Hermione," she says gently, reaching over to tuck a portion of my errant hair behind my ear. "He didn't say what happened, only that it was rather sudden. I guess things are crazy at work for both of you?" When the only thing I do is nod, she continues. "Well, I wouldn't get too bent up about it just yet if I were you. Ron's head over heels in love with you. This will all blow over, you'll see."

I shake my head at her, sniffling a little as I attempt to control the tears that are threatening to rise again. "I don't know, Ginny. This is all well and truly fucked."

Ginny hops up suddenly, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me to my feet with her. "Alright, Dr. Granger. There'll be none of that. I wish I could be the kind of friend that holds your hand and tells you everything's going to be all better, but we know that's just not how this works with us."

She strides toward my closet and pulls it open, examining the contents closely before beginning her selection. She picks out my most comfortable oversized sweater and a pair of jeans so worn they feel like butter when I slide them on. Then she's over at my dresser, rifling through my under things without any shame until settling on one of my few matching sets of black and gold lace.

"Now," she says, depositing the items on my bed. "As much as I've enjoyed the little show you've been offering, it's time to get dressed for the day."

I'm confused for a moment until I process the fact that I not only climbed into bed naked, but I haven't rectified that since Ginny arrived. It takes me another moment to realize I'm feeling drafts where there normally are none. I let out a small "eep" and launch myself toward the bed, dragging my top blanket away in haste to cover myself. Crookshanks goes skittering off for the second time in twenty-four hours, displaced from his sleeping spot and decidedly pissed with me.

She laughs at the mortified look on my face and shakes her head. "I swear, Hermione," she says between laughs. "For as smart as you are, you sure do miss some major details at times."

"You startled me," I insist, pulling the covers tightly around myself in an effort to combat the complete and utter embarrassment I'm experiencing at this exact moment.

"Oh don't be such a prude," Ginny insists, plucking the covers off of me easily. "It's time to pick yourself back up. As much as I love my brother, he's not worth falling all apart over and wasting away in bed. You go get in the shower," she says, grabbing me by the arms again and pulling me toward the bedroom door, "and I'll make us up a bit of breakfast, yeah?"

She says the last bit as a question, but I have no doubts it's an order. Ginny's more than comfortable with bossing people around. She's been the captain of every team she's been on since secondary school. She excels in everything, but especially football. She's been with the Harpies ever since she was out of school and just became captain last year, something she's taken very seriously. Her confidence and control on the field have easily bled into her social life, making her the strongest of us on her best days. For being the shy, sweet little sister of six older brothers for so many years, having the opportunity to step out from under their shadow has let her spread her wings and fly.

And after all those years of training she's a force to be reckoned with. Beautiful and deadly, Harry used to always say. She's a little shorter than average, but she packs a lot of punch in such a small package. She's as strong as a lot of men I know, even stronger sometimes. And so when Ginny Weasley comes into my home and tells me what to do, I'm smart enough to know to just go along.

I'll never admit it to her because then I'll never hear the end of it, but the shower helps center me a bit. I feel a bit more human as I step out, the tears and grim of yesterday gone from my skin. I'd scrubbed at it furiously in an attempt to rid myself of all reminders of the last 24 hours, which leaves me glowing a bit on the red side. I even take a little time this morning to apply a smoothing serum to my hair in an attempt to control one small element of chaos in my life. I can hear Ginny clattering around in the kitchen still so I immediately make a beeline to the bedroom to finish getting ready.

By the time I'm completely dressed Ginny's waltzing into the bedroom with a plate piled high with chocolate chip pancakes, scrambled eggs, and veggie sausage. I didn't realize how hungry I was, having unintentionally reneged on dinner last night, until the smell hits me. As much as Ginny might complain about her mother on occasion, I'd say the mother-daughter time enforced on her during her childhood has served us all well. Ginny certainly inherited her mother's need to fix any crisis with food.

"Ginny," I sigh, snatching up the offered plate. "You're a godsend."

"I know," she says, following me to my small vanity where I sit to eat. "I'm glad to see you have an appetite, I wasn't sure you would."

I nod slowly, quickly chewing on my first bite to answer her. "I'm just as surprised as you. But I think a bit of chocolate and carbs is exactly what I needed."

Ginny smiles sweetly at me before taking my shoulders and pointing me back toward my vanity and the mirror. "You eat, I'll finish you up."

Neither one of us are much for the frilly things of womanhood, but she's a tad more in touch with her feminine side than I am. So I feel comfortable relaxing while Ginny handles the monstrosity that is my hair. Luckily for me Ginny's been helping me deal with my mess since she was eleven years old, so she's a pro when it comes to the taming the beast. She works slowly but efficiently and I find myself settling into a place of quiet relaxation while she works and I fill my belly. By the time she's done my hair is neatly piled into a chic bun on the top of my head. A few stray pieces can't help themselves and fall free, but Ginny gives them each a small twist and lets them fall, keeping the look soft and effortless. She smiles at me in the mirror and I return it with a genuine one of my own.

"Now let me see," she says, reaching past me toward my sparse makeup collection. She seizes three things and then spins me around to face her. She carefully applies a bit of concealer under my eyes to diminish the bags and a bit of powder to set the color. Then she takes my plate from my hands before placing a tube of mascara in my grip.

"Put this on," she says with a smile. "If you're wearing mascara you'll have to think twice about crying."

I shake my head and smile at her as she turns away to return to the kitchen. While Ginny isn't probably the first person I would have reached for the phone to call, she's definitely in the top five. And considering the fact that my number one, Harry, probably isn't speaking to me right now, she's a welcome presence of warmth in my small flat right now.

That is, until she comes walking into my bedroom with my engagement ring cradled in her palms with the most sympathetic expression I've ever see all over her face. She smiles gently at me and she walks toward me, her voice a forced lightness as she asks, "Hermione...where would you like me to put this so I can keep it safe?"

My heart plummets as I stare at the delicate ring resting in her hands. The diamond is modest, about a quarter carat, and the band is lined with small ruby chips. Its glitters joyfully with all the passion of my hopes and dreams for a future family. I'd stared at it for months in the shop window down the street from my flat, but never with the pushy nature I know most women use to get a man to propose. It was just simply too beautiful to not glance at each time I walked by. And Ron had noticed and purchased it without my knowledge, surprising me over a plate of tiramisu he'd brought to my flat from my favorite restaurant across the city. He'd made some ridiculous joke about going against Crookshanks' wishes and proposing to me anyway and we'd laughed through our tears and made love all night long. The next night had been the party at the Burrow, ending in a horrible, drunken argument with him. And then the next day, my dismissal of Malfoy.

Fresh tears well up in my eyes as I tear my gaze away from the symbol of Ron's attempt to bind me to him, and a sob aggressively races up my throat. I force myself to swallow it back down before saying, "I don't care."

I feel the bed shift under me with Ginny's weight as she settles down beside me. Her hand is gentle as it rests on my shoulder. "He left it with you, Hermione. He didn't take it with him. It's a good thing. Everything will work out the way it's supposed to. Ron knows who you really are, and you know who he really is. Fate will put you guys exactly where you belong."

Her words are like a ice against my heart. I can't help but turn and angrily seize the ring from her hand and stride toward my dresser, wrenching open the small drawer on the end and hastily shoving the ring inside before slamming it shut again, ignoring the glint of the other, larger golden ring hidden inside. I brace myself on the surface of the dresser, giving my weak knees a break. I'm not sure how long I can hold myself together anymore, but I can feel my protective shell shattering around me.

"That's what I'm afraid of."

* * *

 _October 18th_

 _After Brockington_

Ginny spends most of the next two weeks keeping my mind busy with running errands around town after Harpies practice, but each afternoon she eventually has to leave me to head home to Harry. So we bid each other good bye every time in front of my building, during which she begs me not to sit in my room and mope. Which I do anyway those first few days. Molly calls me that Wednesday evening, ranting about what an idiot her son is and how she'd gladly trade him in and replace him with me in the family. I manage a laugh around the tears and promise I'll call her for tea when I'm up for it. Ginny watches me closely the next day, as if she is sure I'm going to break again after talking to her mother. But I manage to hold a brave face together for the afternoon before returning to my flat to have a good hard cry. Surprisingly, that is the very last time I cry for Ron Weasley. Like the blessing from Molly to go on being happy is exactly what I needed. Whether she knows that was the case or not when she called me, I'm still not sure.

The next week and a half passes slowly. Eventually I stop jumping every time my phone rings, only to be disappointed when my brain registers it's not Ron's goofy ringtone he set up for me three years ago. After the first week I start sleeping in the middle of the bed again, something I never let myself get used to as Ron's overnight stays were frequent. I tuck my favorite photo of us away in my closet, along with a few other small momentos I can't look. Crookshanks is admittedly more relaxed, no longer eyeing the door to see if his rival will pass through it. Bit by bit, things begin to change and I remember what it's like to simply be Hermione.

But as much as I normally look forward to a quiet nights at home, I don't know if I can stand the silence for one more night. So the next Friday night I decide not to go inside to my flat to sit and think about just how royally fucked my life is like I have every other night after Ginny leaves me on my own. Once she disappears around the building's corner I shift my bag on my shoulder and head down the street to the small lounge that makes the most amazing mojitos and has a ridiculously expensive chocolate tray I plan to indulge in as a reward for surviving these almost two weeks.

I order my drink and chocolate at the bar and find a small leather sofa in a corner to flop myself down in. Tucking my feet up next to me, I pull out the ever present tablet and reading glasses from my oversized bag to do a bit of research while I waste the night away. Whispering Wind is my favorite local drinking establishment, the perfect cross between a library and a bar. The music is relaxed jazz, and the patrons tend to all keep to themselves or in small groups in hushed discussions. I spend many quiet nights here reading and doing research when I find myself constantly interrupted at work during a particularly busy week. One of the waitresses that flits around drops off the chocolate platter with a smile that says she knows exactly why I need a plate of the stuff to myself, which I return with a half-hearted one of my own.

I manage to whittle the hours away locating articles and new studies published my a few journals I subscribe to, making notes on a pad I also always keep with me. By the time it reaches the evening hours I feel almost myself again. Even if Brockington ends up firing me, I know I'm intelligent enough to get another position at another facility. And I've got the work ethic to backup my brains. The pay may not be as good and I may have to move out of my amazing flat as a result, but my options aren't gone. I still love the work I do, and this road block isn't about to stop me. The idea of having to give up my Lexus leaves a sour taste in my mouth, but it's a luxury I've lived without before and will surely survive again.

Three mojitos and a full plate of chocolate for dinner later, I'm tucking my laptop and notepad into my bag when the waitress comes over with a sly smirk and places a fresh mojito in front of me. She gives me a little wink and says, "Don't leave just yet. This is from the _delicious_ man in black at the bar. He's been staring at you all night, I think he sent this in a panic when he realized you were about to leave."

For a half a second, I expect to see Ron sitting there. This is something he would do often, show up quietly to my favorite hideaway and wait patiently until I've exhausted my brain to the point I'm finally ready to turn it off and go home. He's done it several times before when my work carries me away with it, sending a drink or plate of food over to pull me out of my endless pursuit of information. But instead, an entirely different man is watching me, raising his own glass in greeting with a satisfied little smile.

Blaise Zabini.

My heart seizes in my chest. He'd said he'd make contact with me when he was ready, but I didn't expect it to be so soon. We'd only last met in McGonagall's office two weeks ago, and here he was already. He gives me a half-smile in response to the startled look I give him, looking rather pleased with himself. He slides from the bar stool to walk slowly toward me, as if he's worried I'll spook and run. I consider it strongly for a moment.

"Dr. Granger," he says in his easy, sensual tone as he slides onto the couch next to me. "What a surprise seeing you here."

"Hardly," I manage with a croak. His knee brushes mine, too close for comfort. "I don't exactly see this being the Death Eater scene. Don't tell me you came here for the atmosphere."

He gives me a small chuckle, and reaches out to push the narrow mojito glass closer to me. "It's not spiked with anything. Drink it. We need to talk."

I don't argue, instead reaching for the glass with a shaky hand. I bring the glass to my lips, taking a bracing drink through the narrow straw before saying, "I assume you're seeking me out for a professional matter?"

My voice is clearer than I expected it to be, for which I am grateful. This is not a man I have any desire to show weakness in front of. I made that mistake with the last Death Eater I talked to.

His teeth are a brilliant white against his smooth caramel skin as he gives me a daring smile. "Indeed, Doctor. An opportunity has arisen that will profit us both greatly."

He reaches into the interior pocket of his smart blazer, and pulls out three small slips of paper. He sets them down on the small table in front of us and slides them over. My heart leaps as I read the writing on each piece. _The Boneyard Exclusive VIP Event. Admit One._ The date printed on them is tomorrow.

Ginny had mentioned this earlier in the week. That Boneyard is having some sort of ultra exclusive event for their most important patrons, like those with insane amounts of money to spend buying tickets to posh parties. Apparently the Harpies have all been whining about what a "mega-awesome" event it's going to be and scheming on how to get tickets. The whole affair had just sounded overrated to me, especially considering the type of clientele that was sure to be in attendance. Overprivileged snobs with more money than they know what to do with.

"What am I supposed to do with those?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at him. "I hate that place."

Zabini's eyes shoot straight to mine, calling me on my shit with a cutting gaze. "It didn't look like you hated it last week. And like I said, Draco saw you there. If you show up again, there's no way he's going to be able to resist talking to you this time."

My heart races at the reminder that he'd been somewhere in my proximity and I'd been so entirely oblivious. The idea that the man who had thrown my entire world off kilter had been in the same building as me, probably even the same room….

I take another strong pull from the glass to wet my suddenly dry mouth, then ask, "Why three?"

He gives another smile, this time looking proud of himself. "One is for you, the other two are for whoever you want. Girls only," he adds the last part hastily. "Don't bring any guys around, that will just piss him off and make him pout. Bring two girl friends."

"Why two?" I press, picking up the three offending pieces of paper. "I'm already going to have a hard time explaining how I got my hands on two tickets, but three?"

Zabini's smile morphs into a dangerous one as he says, "There needs to be a third person so the one friend isn't left behind worrying about you when you disappear with Draco."

I choke, eyes going wide. He looks delighted at my discomfort, but I can barely breathe. "Disappear with him?" I manage, my voice barely a whisper. "What on earth do you mean?"

Zabini's smile snaps away, replaced by an expression of disgust and annoyance. "Did you forget our bargain, Doctor? You need to trick Malfoy into giving you the information I don't have access to. He's already developed an unhealthy attachment to you after everything that happened at Brockington. I don't care what you do to make it happen, but it starts tomorrow night. This needs to happen now, or the deal is off. And I'll find some other way to get myself and my friends out of this godforsaken mess."

Now. This needs to happen now. My head is swimming as I consider his words. I don't know why I'm so shocked. I knew this was coming, but I think I just didn't expect it so soon. I thought there would be months of planning, months to get adjusted to the idea. To really get over Ron before I had to do this. Before I had to face him.

"Does McGonagall know?" I ask, forcing myself to meet his eyes.

"Yes," he says curtly. "She knows. But you're not to have any contact with anyone from the NCA from now on unless they contact you themselves. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, your relationship with Ron Weasley and Harry Potter is strained to the point of near non-existence. You can't be seen with anyone associated with criminal investigations."

"The only other friend I have besides Harry and Ron is Ron's sister, Ginny," I admit flatly. "I'm not exactly a social butterfly. Who am I supposed to bring with me?"

Zabini leans back a moment, considering, then finally says, "She's the Hollyhead Harpie captain, right? It should be fine. There are very few people in the world who will make the connection between her and her brother. To the majority of London she's a reasonably popular athlete, and just the sort of person you'd expect to see at the VIP event."

"And how exactly am I supposed to explain how I got these tickets?" I ask, waving them in his face. "It's not exactly as though I can tell Ginny I _bought_ them in a whim. She'd never believe me, plus this thing was supposed to have been sold out for weeks."

Zabini is beginning to look bored, as if he finds my questions tedious. He lifts a hand to examine a nail as he says, "Really, Doctor, I thought you were supposed to be intelligent. Think of something. Perhaps tell them a handsome stranger gifted them to you in a bar in thanks for such riveting conversation."

Snarling, I shove the tickets into my bag. I swallow down the rest of the ill-given drink and slam the glass down on the table so hard I expect it to break. Thanking my lucky stars I paid the tab when I ordered my last drink so I can beat a hasty exit, I push to my feet as I stuff the rest of my belongings into my bag. "Thank you _so_ much for your assistance, sir."

Zabini doesn't even deign to look at me, instead leaning back into the couch and pulling out his phone to survey a message. "I expect to see you there, Doctor. If you don't show, our deal is off. And don't act like such a stuck up prude while you're there. Don't give me that look. I can tell already you're going to be an awkward mess. Throw back a few drinks when you get there and have a little fun. He won't show up until he thinks it's safe, anyway."

Scowling, I turn on my heel and stomp out of the lounge without a backward look at the irritating man who somehow has managed to get control of my life through his agreement with McGonagall. Somehow, I have to come up with an excuse for how I got these tickets and convince Ginny and another woman—probably one of her Harpies—to come with me. While I don't think the latter will be an issue, the former may take some consideration. But as irritated as I am at Zabini, I also know it won't be much of a task to keep them from getting suspicious. Ginny will be so thrilled she won't push much if I can come up with some sort of reasonable explanation.

The thought that I'll see Malfoy tomorrow night has me wobbling a little in my boots as I make my way down the two blocks it takes to get back to my flat. While part of me is terrified, the small, dark part of me that's been awakened these past few months inside the walls of Brockington Manor is humming with excitement. As dangerous as he is, there's also a dark piece of my soul that is intrigued by him. Something about him has called to me on such a basic, almost primitive level. And that part of myself has already almost cost me everything I have always held dear in my life, something that the light, bright part of me is grieving for.

But that darkest part of me is curled up like a waiting cat, the tail swishing in anticipation of what it can tell is coming. The hunt that's about to happen. And I suddenly find myself walking home a bit faster, anxious to get to something somewhere that feels a bit more grounded. Because I feel entirely out of control.

* * *

.x.x.x.

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Your reviews were all so lovely on the last chapter. Special thanks to Jennydcg, DuchessWondershel, AuraAuthor, TheFlameRose, reptilegirl, KiaMinaya, and my lovely guest reviewers for taking the time to share your thoughts and appreciation with me!

Things are going to start moving faster now. The slower pace post-Brockington was my reason for alternating chapters between pre and post their time there so you wouldn't be clawing your eyes out waiting for them to reunite. I felt like I really needed to give Hermione and Ron proper closure before moving forward with Dramione, and give Hermione some time to process what she experienced while caring for Draco. I'm not a fan of Hermione and Ron together, but I've always respected the fact that, in most universes, those two were going to somehow end up together in some way and we'd need to deal with that before pursuing Draco and Hermione's relationship.

See you again in a few days, darlings!


	10. Chapter 10

WARNING WARNING WARNING

Possible triggers in this one. Mentions of sexual assault mid-way through, and a touch of violence in the end. Absolutely nothing graphic at all, but here is your warning now!

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Breaking Heaven

Chapter 10

 _June 25th_

 _Session 12_

Dean Clemens is firm when we talk in his office at the end of the day. The board agrees to keep me on Malfoy's care, but with restrictions. I have to meet with the dean every other week to update him on my progress, and he will review my notes and discuss any proposed treatments. I demand that Lockhart be barred from Malfoy's care based on the ECT incident and his unprofessional behavior when they interrupted our session in exchange for me not filing a formal complaint for the assault. Especially considering Malfoy's statements may contain highly sensitive information about the Death Eaters that don't need to be drunkenly shared at the bar Lockhart frequents, I assert he doesn't have the grace to handle such information well. Dean Clemens begrudgingly agrees, and I walk out irritated but at least reassured my patient is safe from the hands of a legitimate lunatic for now.

Our next sessions are uneventful over the next five weeks, and we're suddenly already almost halfway through the initial six months I promised Malfoy I would stay on his case. We review statements he's given in the past about his background, which he retracts almost entirely. Many of them are elaborate stories painting pictures of a man suffering different psychological disorders, leading his doctors down paths to diagnoses and treatments that are of no help to his actual state of mind. If it wasn't obvious before, it's clear now Malfoy is a very intelligent man, and also well acquainted with the concepts of many serious illnesses.

At one point he had a doctor convinced he had Todd's syndrome, which lead to a prescription of anticonvulsants and antidepressants which Malfoy was able to successfully trick the staff into believing he'd taken. The next doctor diagnosed him with PTSD and schizophrenia, which wasn't helped by antidepressants and antipsychotics much to the doctor's dismay. He'd made a rather big show when he thought he'd solved the big Malfoy mystery, and he was made out to be a fool when his treatments didn't 'work'. And while Malfoy, and now myself, know this wasn't the illness he suffered, he was thrilled to see his doctor sweating it out. Then things took a turn for the worst when his doctor became desperate to show the others he could treat and subdue Malfoy. This led to Malfoy's first and _very inappropriate_ introduction to ECT, after which he experienced a period of aggression that resulted in two guards being sent to the hospital. Things began to spiral downward from there.

The most recent diagnosis from the doctor before myself was bipolar disorder with intense manic episodes, which in all likelihood was caused by the repeated ECTs they'd continued to administer combined with the low blood sugar from his restricted meals. Malfoy thought he had all of his deceptions under control until the ECT started, and then he couldn't ever get a grasp on things again. He hadn't counted on a doctor being that stupid, or any other doctor after to follow suite. I point out what a dangerous path he was walking, which he brushes off with a scowl. Once we get the file to a blank state, the interesting conversations begin to happen.

He doesn't reveal much, most of his statements are bland and useless. He tests me sometimes, saying things I quickly realize are verging on lies. He denies it, but I can tell when he's skating the line. But he does make sure to give away at least one nugget of insightful information each time to ensure the board doesn't revoke my care. It's never enough to really get us anywhere, but it's enough to hold the status quo for now.

It's during one of these sessions, when he's skating around the topic easily and driving me crazy, that he asks me a question that throws me off guard entirely.

"Are you ever going to tell me what it was that fucked you up when you were younger? The person who made you want to be a psychiatrist?" He says is quickly, with a bite to his tone that tells me he's irritated with me. I've been pestering him tonight, pushing for more, and it's led to a few more disagreements than usual.

I'm startled, and it takes effort not to let my jaw fall in reaction to his bluntness. "I'm sorry?"

He huffs, then says, "All those weeks ago, when you talked about why you chose psychiatry. Are you ever going to tell me who it was?"

I consider his question, my heart suddenly picking up its pace in my chest. It's not a story I've told many people, because it's a story I'm ashamed of. Ron and Harry were shocked when I told them in college after one too many drinks and a conversation that veered off course spectacularly. But looking at Malfoy across from a metal table that his hands are yet again shackled to, I feel a sense of security that surprises me. His stare is intense, as if he's willing me to tell him. And like magic, I suddenly want to. Because I know this is a dark part of me that he can understand, because it sheds light on a sense of violence I don't want to acknowledge I have. And the rational part of my brain hopes that by self disclosing such a monumental piece of my past, I'll gain a little more ground with him.

"It was my step-dad," I say, rolling my eyes. "How clique, right? My dad died when I was ten, and he was the love of my mom's life. She remarried an idiot, she was so desperate to not be alone. He was a retired cop and a real creep, always making lewd comments about my changing body and my 'cute' friends. My mom brushed it off as him being playful, but I always begged not to be alone with him. He scared me sometimes, the way he would stare at me.

"By the time I was 12 it progressed from little touches to full on sexual assault. One time he got sloppy, and my mom found us. He'd always kept a knife with him to make sure I behaved myself and remembered to keep my mouth shut when things were done. When he went for it when she walked in I knew he was going to go after my mom to make sure she stayed quiet too. I got my hand on it first, and stabbed him in the neck. My mom grabbed me and got us out, then called the cops. We met them in the lobby, and by the time we all got back up there he was dead. Bled out like a stuck pig in the middle of my bedroom floor."

Malfoys eyes grow darker and darker with each word that leaves my mouth, until his eyes are black orbs of fury. A gnarled fist of dread grabs my by the throat, but I somehow manage to keep going. It's like a dam is broken, and the words won't stop now that they've started.

"It was...a long ordeal after that. A few of his buddies were still working on the force, and they refused to believe my story. They had a medical professional come to their offices to examine me, thinking they'd find out I was lying when there was no evidence and they could charge me with second-degree murder. He'd...had his way earlier that day before the incident where my mom found us, so there was no way to doubt what happened. I wish I could have seen the looks on their faces when that female doctor told them the truth. There were also the usual signs of force having been used...multiple times.

"Eventually, they determined it was a justifiable homicide. We lived in America at the time. Once everything was over, my mom couldn't stand to live in the same house, or even walk the same streets we used to. So my mom moved us here to live with family after the trial was done."

The ease with which the words come tumbling out is disarming. While telling Harry and Ron felt shameful, telling Malfoy feels therapeutic. Harry and Ron always strive for what's right, and I'm proud to think the three of us help stand between good and evil. But there's always been a part of me that feels...separate from them in some way. Other. Like I'm one step away from disappointing them. But with Malfoy…well, I know he's done just the same, if not worse.

"My mom stuck me in therapy for a long time once we were here, which was useless. I stopped going when I turned sixteen. It never felt like the people who talked to me could help me process what happened. And I don't just mean the abuse, that was something that was easy for them to address. But that dark, sick part of me that wanted to _kill_ him for what he did to me. How...happy I was when I shoved that knife into his skin, the relief I felt when I saw his blood come pouring out. The part of me that enjoyed hurting him so much. Nothing they ever said made sense to me, or helped me understand why I felt that way. By the time I quit therapy I was on an anxiety medication just so I could sleep at night. That's why I went into the field of work I did. Because if no one was going to help me, I was going to help myself."

Malfoy's face is white, his hands clenching the edge of the table with knuckles even paler than his face. His eyes are narrowed, but his breathing is even as he stares me down. The room is silent for a moment, until he says, "That's fucking bullshit, Granger."

"Indeed," I say, nodding. "That's what made me want to go into psychiatry and behavior analysis. I wanted to understand why people do the things they do, and maybe stop it from happening to someone else. I dove into understanding why criminals make the decisions they do, from robbery to rape to murder. To understand how someone can have so little regard for other people's lives. And...to understand my own reaction to what happened. My desire to snuff out his life, it was frightening. And I still haven't found a way to accept it."

Malfoy doesn't say anything, just stares at the cuffs at his wrists intensely. It feels heavy in the room, like my words have given weight to the air around us. I force myself not to shrink into myself with embarrassment, but instead I keep my posture straight and my eyes set ahead, watching him.

"How many people have you told this to?" he asks softly, keeping his eyes trained in his hands.

"Not many," I admit. "Only the people I've had to, or the people I trust. My two best friends, and my boyfriend, and of course the appropriate people here at Brockington know. Even if they let me off for what happened, I still have a record."

"Do I fall in to the category of people you had to tell, or the people you trust?"

His eyes finally flash to mine, hard and soft in the same moment. He's studying me again, like he always does. It used to unnerve me, but I've grown used to it over these last few weeks. It's like an indicator of how invested he is in the conversation. If he wants to hear and understand what you're saying, he'll burn a hole through you with how closely he watches you.

"Both, I suppose," I say with a shrug.

He's quiet again for a beat, then states almost accusingly, "You've never mentioned a boyfriend."

He catches me off guard with this, for both the tone and the words. "It's never come up."

"I asked you about a boyfriend. The first day."

"And I never gave you an answer. I'm not typically in the habit of self-disclosing with patients, Mr. Malfoy. Today was a special treat."

He ignores the slightly teasing tone in my voice, his response bitter. "What does he do?"

He asks this like it's a demand, and I'm still so startled I answered him.

"He works for the National Crime Agency," I say dumbly, blinking a few times in surprise. "With our best friend, it's how I got started here and consulting with the NCA."

Malfoy's eyes narrow. "He's a fed."

 _Shit._ That was most definitely not something I should have told him, even though Ron and Harry haven't done undercover work for years. My brain is in sharing mode, something I need to immediately switch off before any other information leaks out of me.

I'm still formulating a response when the door behind me beeps, signaling the entrance of the guards and the end of our session. Malfoy stands without a word, and accepts the change of restraint passively. He usually makes some crude remark to the guards, but he's suddenly very quiet. I'm still reeling from the conversation and relieved it's over, but he throws a parting statement over his shoulder as he goes.

"Doctor," he says, his voice calm and detached. "I've been working on a gift for you. I suddenly think you're going to appreciate it more than I originally thought."

His words send ice down my spine, and I don't have time to ask him for some clarification before he's out the door.

The rest of the day is hell. Lockhart called in sick for the fifth day in a row, still licking his wounds after a bad meeting with the board earlier this week. As a result, I've been handling his patients and paperwork for the week. It shouldn't have been a big deal, but I find myself fixing his mistakes at every turn. Several patients needed their medication dosages altered, some even needing entirely different medications than what Lockhart had prescribed. I've sent an email to Lockhart detailing the changes and reasons for them, carbon copying Dean Clemens on each note of communication. Part of me expects a snapping reply from Lockhart as he tends to watch his emails even when he's out of the office, but nothing comes.

I'm relieved when I finally walk in the door of my quiet little flat, a bottle of my favorite Pinot Gris tucked under my arm and my favorite chinese take-out in a brown paper bag under the other. And as much as I love Ron, a part of me is thrilled to know he's working late tonight again and won't be by. He uses it as an excuse to push the cohabitating subject again, but I push him off as usual. I adore having my own space, and I'm content with the way our relationship is now, when I still have so much of myself to still explore and come to terms with before I live with another human ever again.

Crookshanks is practically screaming at me as I enter, despite the fact I know Ron stopped by to feed him before heading back to the office tonight. Ron always overfills his bowl in an effort to end his yowling, and I can tell it's been eaten based on the crumbs around the bowl that weren't there this morning. Yet, Crookshanks still acts as though he's been starved for days. The damn cat circles my ankles so tightly I almost fall flat on my face, which spikes my already inflamed sense of irritation.

"Goddamnit, Crookshanks," I yell, throwing down the bag and bottle on the counter hard enough for the sound to send the cat spinning and spitting away angrily. "You're not dying!"

As I set the items down I suddenly realize there's another package sitting on the counter already. It's wrapped with silver paper, with a green ribbon wrapped around it and tied over a small red stemmed rose. Next to it is a note from Ron. I expect a cute little message from him explaining the surprise, but I find that's not the case when I read what is written there.

 _Found this waiting in front of your door. Should I be worried about a secret admirer? Only joking. I know it's just your girly chocolates you love to order. Enjoy, love._

I don't recall ordering my special gourmet chocolates recently, although Ron is right that it's a weakness of mine with that cute new shop in town. I'm hoping maybe Ginny ordered me a little treat after I'd told her about my irritation with Lockhart over lunch this afternoon. Or perhaps it's a misdelivery and something inside will tell me where it belongs.

 _Oh god. Please don't let it be from Viktor._

But then, an even more terrifying thought strikes me.

Malfoy mentioned a _gift_ ….

With shaking hands, I slide the ribbon off the edges of the box. I bring the rose to my nose, inhaling deeply as I consider whether or not I should call the cops before opening it. But I really don't think Malfoy would kill me, or really let any form of harm come to me intentionally. We've developed an understanding over the last few weeks, a mutual respect if nothing else.

So I brace myself, then pull up the lid of the silver wrapped box.

Inside is a nest of white rose petals, sending up waves of perfume as a few flutter from within the box with the movement of the lid. They're beautiful, but something pale pink is ruining their perfect white near the center of the space. Using the stem of the red rose, I coax away the rose petals to reveal something that makes me instantly drop the rose and press my hands over my mouth.

Nestled inside the bed of rose petals is a severed hand. It's nearly the same color as the roses around it with just the barest hint of pink left in the skin, and it's clear someone took very special care to make a clean cut at the wrist joint. The incision is smooth, and the skin is clean without bruising and the blood has been drained away. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.

And then, I see it. Glistening on the middle finger is a gold ring, with a familiar, pretentious _L_ carved into it. _Lockhart._ This is the hand that grabbed my arm all those weeks ago, the hand that had left a bruise there in its wake. Malfoy had stared so hard at that bruise when I had to pull off my white coat during one of our sessions last week when the air conditioning malfunctioned.

The gift Malfoy had promised me is not just a gift. It's a trophy. A horrible, wonderful thing that shows exactly how offended he was by that altercation. The behavior analyst in me takes this in, this look into how Malfoy views justice, how he feels wrongs should be righted. And eye for an eye. Or a hand for a hand, as it were. And for whatever reason, he had deemed me worthy of such an effort. Which is perhaps the most terrifying thing of all.

No. What's even more terrifying is the fact is sends a shiver of pleasure and a thrill shooting up my spine. It's suddenly clear I may be very, very in over my head with this man.

* * *

.x.x.x.

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You have my most extreme apologies for the delay in this chapter getting to you. We had a crazy week here in my life, so I didn't get a moment to edit and post this chapter.

Hermione and Draco reunite next chapter! Let me know what you think of how things are going so far!


	11. Chapter 11

Breaking Heaven

Chapter 9

 _October 19th_

 _After Brockington_

I hadn't been wrong about how easy it would be to weasel past my explanation of how exactly I'd been able to procure the tickets. I just told Ginny over brunch at our favorite cafe that a co-worker had given them to me for half the price when she found out she had to unexpectedly travel to America to see a sick relative. Ginny had sworn up and down she'd pay me back as soon as she could, but I brushed her off easily amid her excitement.

"Who are you going to give the third ticket to?" she asks, giving me a weary look that tells me exactly her mind is jumping to. She thinks I might offer it to Ron, to see if I can coax him back to me. My heart stings at the thought, but not as much as I thought it would. Even after only two weeks, it seems my heart is adjusting to the massive rip he'd torn through it. The idea unsettles me, but I also find it easy to accept for the time being while I have an important duty to fulfill. It will make tonight far less difficult.

I haven't heard from Ron since our split, nor from Harry since our meeting with McGonagall. I'd expected something to come from them at some point, as we've never gone this long without speaking in some manner since secondary school. But Ron is hurt and upset, and Harry is furious with me for the possibility of my having a role in letting Malfoy out of Brockington. And while I resent the notion, I can understand where their hurt feelings come from.

"Do you think Eugenia is available?" I ask, referring to the pretty blue-lipped girl from our last trip to Boneyard. "She seems the most tolerable out of the bunch who was with us last time."

Ginny nods enthusiastically, her shining red hair bobbing in its ponytail. "Yes, she's by far my favorite Harpie. But don't tell the other girls," she adds hastily, giving a small laugh. "I'm sure she'll shit her pants when we tell her."

Eugenia does, indeed, shit her pants with excitement when Ginny calls her on speaker phone.

She lets out a shriek so loudly I'm almost certain the speaker is permanently damaged. She quickly begins rattling off outfit and makeup options that make my head spin, and promises she'll come help us get ready for the night. Ginny gives me Eugenia's number to punch into my phone so I can send her the address to my flat, and we make plans meet to get ready for, "like, the most MEGA-AWESOME night ever!"

Ginny and I part ways after brunch, but she promises to be at my flat at 7pm with snacks while we get ready. She gives me a last, gleeful squeal as she hugs me, making me laugh in delight at how happy this makes her. While I may have ulterior motives for inviting her tonight, I'm glad something I'm so fucking nervous about can make her light up so much.

The afternoon passes slowly, and my anxiety is at an all-time high by 3pm. I pace my flat nearly a hundred times, bouncing my hands off my thighs as I do. My brain is moving far too fast, and at one point I'm nearly dizzy. Not working has left me a nervous wreck without something to expend my energy and frenetic mind on. I'd already gone for a rare jog shortly after arriving home from brunch, but I'm still buzzing with energy.

My mind jumps to the small red box hidden in the back of my sock drawer, tucked away in case of emergency. It's a shameful little box, something I'd kept hidden from Ron in fear he wouldn't understand, especially given what his job all entails. While Ron understands the theory of anxiety, it's not something he can fully grasp. He doesn't understand why I can't just snap myself out of it when it all becomes too much. But, luckily, Fred and George Weasley aren't as straight laced as their brother. So when I'd found them smoking pot in the Weasley family's upstairs bathroom, I'd been intrigued. I'd read enough studies to be well aware of the medicinal effects of marijuana, but the idea of practicing the act myself had been a distant thought. Shortly after me hacking out a lung and their laughter and coaching, I realized the buzzing energy always zipping about in my brain and slowed to soft, lazy waves. Smiling at the end of the night when Ron commented on what a good mood I was in, the twins had pressed the small red box into my purse on the way out the door with the promise to help me restock it whenever I needed it.

Reminding myself it's hardly the most outrageous law I'd end up breaking through the course of the coming months, I allow my pacing to lead me into the bedroom and to the offending drawer. The box is small, about the size a notecard and only a few inches deep, but hidden inside are the things I'm most ashamed of. I pull the box out of the drawer and head to my bed, lifting the lid as I go. There's still a mostly full bowl inside from when I'd hastily had to throw the pipe in the box and throw open a window when Ron had announced he was coming over to "help me" after a particularly stressful day at work, not knowing he was interrupting the one thing that would actually manage to calm me down.

I force myself not to look at the necklace also tucked inside. The glint of the large gold "L" on the band makes my stomach turn, and my heart grow soft. How strange that one of the most romantic, sincere gestures I've ever received in my life is in the form of a torture trophy. Just the thought sends my anxiety skyrocketing, and so I will myself to reach for the pipe with shaking hands.

It never takes me much, maybe three good pulls, and I'm there. I've never pushed it hard, because I've never used it as a recreational thing. It's purely to control my anxiety, so I consider it medicinal. That being said, when the first wave of warmths begin to settle over me I can't help but left off a little smile. _There we go._ Tucking the lighter and pipe away in the box to be safely hidden away again, I head into my bathroom intent on starting a warm bubble bath to let my mild high mellow sufficiently.

Between the weed and the bath, I manage to get to my bed and sleep like the dead for several hours. By the time I wake up it's already 6:50pm, giving me just enough time to get myself dressed since I had slipped between my sheets bare naked in a fit of freedom. Indeed, I'm just slipping an oversized sweater over a pair of leggings when the bell to my flat rings. Ginny knows where I hide my spare key, so if she's ringing the bell I can only assume she's got an arm full of god knows what.

Just as I suspected, Ginny is laden down with arms of clothing and bags of makeup and hair products. She gives me a sheepish look, but Eugenia stands behind her beaming.

"She made me help her carry all of this," Ginny says by way of apology, striding past me and heading to my bedroom.

"Yes, yes," Eugenia says with a huff. "We all know how tough and tomboy you like to act, Ginerva Weasley. But deep down, you're just as girly as the rest of us." She steps past me as well, setting down grocery bags of snacks on the small island in our kitchen. She pulls out a bag of grapes, some cheese, several bars of chocolate, and three bottles of my favorite wine.

"Thank god," I sigh, heading for the cupboard that holds my stemware. "I was hoping by snacks she meant wine."

"Indeed," Eugenia laughs, accepting the large plate I pulled out the adjacent cupboard for her. "Ginny said you're not much of a party girl, so we have to get you liquored up before you change your mind about tonight's adventure."

I purse my lips and shake my head as I start cranking on the corkscrew, eager to get to the sweet, crisp white wine inside. "Ginny has a really big mouth."

"Go ahead and open two, Gena," Ginny shouts from the bedroom. "Hermione's sour puss attitude is going to need them all!"

While I'm a bit put out by Ginny's statement, she ends up being right about the wine. Half an hour later and one bottle down, I'm finally feeling a bit more willing to let her and Eugenia have a stab at my hair and makeup. My small vanity, which normally holds just a hairbrush and a few small beauty items, is now littered with all sorts of makeup and terrifying instruments of torture. Eugenia informs us the theme of the night at Boneyard is "Devils in Paradise" so she insists we need dark, dramatic looks. Ginny agrees to tame my hair into some semblance of ringlet curls, and Eugenia decides I'll need something called a "smokey eye." I don't even bother complaining, instead letting them work and chatter while I drink my wine to keep my thoughts from racing again.

I don't recognize the girl in the mirror staring back at me nearly an hour later. Ginny manages to curl my hair with Eugenia's straightener, resulting in long curls that kiss down my back with the extra length. Eugenia had cleverly brought gift wrap ribbons, which Ginny has also curled and mixed in with my hair. Eugenia is stellar with the makeup, adding cateye wings to make my eyes appear wider, with a swipe of a bright white liner near my bottom lashes to make them larger. Beneath that she'd smudge emerald green shadow, and my cheeks shimmer with a platinum highlight that I'm sure can be seen from a mile away. I'd vehemently protested the fake lashes she'd tried to stick on, instead letting her smear on layers of mascara I'm dreading have to wash off. Her final addition was the rub of dark red lipstick, nearly black against my powdered skin.

The outfit is my own selection, and I'm eager to surprise them as I've only revealed the color to them so far. I'd purchased the dress a long time again on a whim when it had gone on sale at a store I pass nearly every weekend on my walks around town. I'd had visions of wearing it to dinner some night at a fancy restaurant with Ron, maybe even on our honeymoon. Or maybe at Harry and Ginny's wedding. But no such opportunity has come up, and it's been sitting in my closet for months collecting dust. Eugenia and Ginny both clap with delight when I pull it out, Eugenia insisting it's perfect and Ginny demanding I immediately go put it on while she finishes Eugenia's hair.

The material of the dress is soft, like butter as it slides over my skin. The feel of it makes my nipples harden as the fabric smooths by, but the dress is low cut in front and even lower cut in back, making it impossible to wear a bra. The sleeves are cut along the length with occasional bands of glittering silver gems that hold the two sides together, ending at a sparkling cuff at my wrist. The dress hugs my torso and falls just above my knees in a flare, providing enough coverage that I don't feel like my ass is going to fall out the bottom by any stretch of the imagination. The fabric clings enough I have to be careful about my underwear selection, which means I'm wearing a red lace thong to hide my panty lines.

My stomach and thighs are thicker than I'd like from days spent inactive at my desk or in sessions. Ron always made me feel like I was enough, telling me I was shaped like a real woman. I feel a spike of pain in my heart when I remember how good he was at making me feel grounded and valued. His view of me was what gave me the courage to buy such a revealing dress. The dress is a color Ron abhors, a dark emerald green, but I'd bought it anyway in the hopes I'd manage to finally win him over. The color matches my skin tone wonderfully, and it goes perfectly with my most comfortable nude heels. It's an outfit I'd been dying to show off to him. But somehow, it feels like tonight is the night I was meant to debut it.

Ginny and Eugenia _ooh_ and _aah_ appropriately for me as I step out of the bathroom, then quickly scramble into their own outfits. They've each selected an ensemble on each polar end of my own. Ginny's in a pair of comfortable leggings with a simple red top with gold flats while Eugenia's sparkling silver dress barely covers her ass and her heels are sky high. It's fascinating to me that two women with the same muscled, athletic build would chose to display themselves so differently. Ginny has left her own hair now and natural and wears simple makeup, while Eugenia's is curled more dramatically than mine and teased within an inch of its life, and her makeup is as dramatic as her personality. Eugenia is cracking horrible, racy jokes making Ginny laugh, and it's the first time I think it might actually be possible for me to have a good time tonight.

We're out the door by 8:30pm, and Ginny already has a cab waiting for us as we exit my building. Climbing into the back seat, it suddenly dawns on me that I may need to ask Ginny an important question.

"Ginny?" I inquire casually as I pull the safety belt across my chest to click in beside me. "Does Harry know where we're going tonight?"

Ginny does her best to look nonchalant as she slides in the opposite door and says, "I told him I was taking you out again to blow off steam. He didn't ask me where, he was too busy asking how you were doing after the split with Ron. I didn't think I needed to elaborate. I'm staying with you tonight, by the way," she adds with a sly smile. "I intend to get well and truly shitfaced tonight, and I don't want to have to listen to the lecture when I get home."

I'm not exactly sure how this statement makes me feel. While I'm relieved Harry doesn't know where we're going tonight, I'm not sure how I feel about the fact I'm making Ginny lie to Harry. True, she doesn't know Boneyard is Death Eater territory, but she can definitely tell Harry isn't happy with her going there and would do his best to dissuade her. She assumes it's because of the club atmosphere, but I know better. And if Harry finds out I _invited_ her there, our friendship may be in even more trouble than it already is.

There's also the matter of breaking it to Ginny I may not even be coming back to my flat with her tonight if Malfoy decides to make an appearance. The idea sends currents of electricity shooting down my spine, sensations of both apprehension and...excitement making my toes curl. It's highly possible I'll see Malfoy tonight for the first time since everything came crashing down around me. I'm not sure if I'm going to play the grateful card to lure him into a false sense of security...or slap him right across his smug little face.

* * *

The entryway to Boneyard is dark as we pass through the doors, the doorman marking our hands with a gold inked stamp as he tears off a portion of our tickets before handing them back to us along with a few gold raffle-type tickets. I tuck mine into the small wrist wallet I've brought with me tonight, then check to make sure my flat keys and phone are still safely stowed inside. After a few steps in darkness we reach another doorman, who pulls back a thick velvet curtain to allow us into Boneyard's transformed interior.

The lights are lower than before, broken up by beams of red and orange light that casts a devilish tint to the entire space. The large bar that dominates the central space is also lit up in red and orange, and the workers behind it are dressed in racy clothing with dark red masks. Behind the bar is the flashing lights of the dance floor, and the sunken tables around the bar for those who wish to indulge in special service are covered in brilliant displays of liquor available for pouring by one of the delightful waitresses dressed in outfits that could easily be called lingerie. I notice tonight the balconies of what are obviously the VIP booths, each accessed by small spiral staircases manned by burly looking bouncers. I wonder exactly who you have to be to get a VIP table at a VIP event, and decide I don't want to know.

"Table service is supposed to be outrageous tonight," Eugenia yells over the music, eyeing the disgusting displays of wealth happening at the booths we'd been in the last time we were here. "But we can use these tickets at the bar! Let's get some drinks!"

It takes us a while to make our way to the front of the line of people anxious to grab a drink as well. I'm surprised by the number of people here tonight, easily more than were present last week. It's amazing how an "exclusive" event can draw such a crowd. For how much these tickets were supposedly going for, this place can stay running for at least a year on tonight's profits alone.

Eugenia orders us each a "Devil's Elixir" shot that tastes like cinnamon and cream on the way down. She then hands me a dangerous looking hurricane glass full of some sort of blue drink with a strawberry and a bit of whipped cream floating on top of it. She gives the bartender six of the four small golden drink tickets we were each given at the door.

Ginny doesn't even question the drink Eugenia hands her, instead just taking a blind sip as she makes her way to the only unoccupied cocktail table near the outskirts of the bar area of the club. I'm not sure if it's because Eugenia knows her drink order so well or if Ginny just trusts her teammate, but it makes me miss that easy way of being with someone who knows you so well. It makes me miss Harry, and even more it makes me miss Ron.

"This place is insane," Eugenia yells as she turns to look around her. "How is it possible it's even more busy than on a normal night?"

"Can you believe this is them _limiting_ the ticket sales?" Ginny asks with a grin. "These guys sure know how to do business."

Just beyond us a bunch of guys crack up laughing as a tall, blonde, and brawn guy comes sauntering over with a cocky grin on his face. He slams an arm down on the table and glances toward Eugenia with what I'm sure he thinks is his most charming grin.

"Are you ladies heading to the dance floor?" he asks while his friends hoot in the background. "I'd love the chance to try it out with you."

Eugenia rolls her eyes as she brings her glass to her lips where she can supervise it appropriately as she tells him, "Just as soon as I drink enough to tolerate slobs like you."

Her caution with her drink reminds me to be careful with my own, and I place my hand casually over the top while I observe their interaction to be sure no one slips in anything without my noticing. I can see Ginny out of the corner of my eye doing the same.

"You're a funny one, sweet cheeks," the man says, leaning over to give her ass a little smack. "I'll grab you when you get out there."

My jaw drops as he walks away, but Eugenia merely rolls her eyes at us in a way that says she's used to this kind of behavior and it no longer phases her. I'm horrified at the idea that this is a common occurrence for her, but Ginny's the one who jumps in with snarled, "You oughta have thrown your drink in his face."

"And waste perfectly good alcohol on him?" she says with a huff. "Hardly. Let them think what they want, I'm not stupid enough to fall for it."

"This happens often?" I ask, fury rising in my blood. I snap around, locating the back of the horrible man's head as he moves away from us. "That is absolutely appalling."

"Men are disgusting," she says gruffly. "It's infuriating to let them get away with it, but this isn't the place to take up that particular cross."

"It's not right," I assert. "The fact this is so...normal for you—"

"I'm a big girl," Eugenia reassures me. "Trust me, I've ripped the balls off my fair share of Neanderthals when I think it will actually make a difference."

I'm still fuming when Ginny runs back to the bar once more to grab us each another round. Upon her return Eugenia ensures the topic is changed, and we're feeling decidedly light on our feet halfway through the drinks she brought us. No other over eager men approach us, although a pair of girls ask to share our small table with us for a moment while they take a breather from dancing.

"Actually," Ginny says with a smile as she finishes her drink, "I think it's time we hit the dance floor ourselves, ladies."

Eugenia agrees full heartedly as she slams down the rest of her own drink, but I fiddle with my straw nervously. We've been here for nearly two hours by now, but there's no sign of Malfoy. I thought maybe I'd feel when he was nearby, like all those months together would somehow have given me a supernatural sixth sense that would tell me when he was watching me. But I haven't felt anything, and I'm torn between worry and relief at the idea that Zabini could have been wrong about tonight.

The dance floor is packed as we make our way into the crowd, the bass pounding in my chest as the music pours over everyone. There's a live DJ tonight, who's deck is lit up with phantom flames that cast an eerie shadow over everyone. Some members of the crowd have taken the theme literally, wearing devil horns and masks, while others have dressed in their best night club attire like the three of us. I'm content to stop near the edge, but Eugenia keeps pulling my hand until we're nearly in the center, then turns to give me a sly grin as she begins moving her hips to the music. I can hear Ginny give a laugh as she too begins to dance, and suddenly nothing else matters anymore inside the cloud of sexual tension, music, and alcohol.

It doesn't take me long to enter the trance I always hit when dancing, the music taking over for my brain and telling my body what to do. It's almost better than the weed, the ability the music has to make me feel lighter and less out of control. It's strange how having my brain no longer in control makes _me_ feel in control.

I'm aware of the fact I'm practically ignoring my friends, but after our last time out together they understand how I am when I hit my zone. So they dance together, laughing and yelling comments to each other and nearby patrons. I smile at them every so often to let them know I'm aware of them, but for the most part I'm on my own.

That is, until a warm pair of hands brush my hips suggestively. I jump, slowing my movements as the hands' grips becomes more firm, and I feel the rub of another body behind mine. It appears I have a partner again. I'm annoyed at first, as a partner is the last thing I want right now when I'm trying to keep calm and in my happy place. But I'm in luck, because just like the last time it seems I have a partner that actually knows how to _dance_ with another person, not just bump and grind on them with dancing as an excuse to try to dry hump a stranger. And with that sly, dark part of me reminding me I have no reason not to enjoy another person's company now, I relax into my partner and let them join me in my oblivion. My partner grows more bold, stepping closer until our bodies are completely touching. I feel their breath against my neck, my hair pulled to the side in an attempt to keep myself cool two songs ago. A nose suddenly runs along my neck, sending shivers down my spine as lips come to my ear and growl, "What in the _fuck_ are you doing here, Granger?"

Ice runs down my spine at that voice, the one that's haunted my dreams for weeks. I'd let my guard down, assuming if he hadn't made his presence known by now he wasn't going to at all. But here he is, his body pressed against mine as the blood sings in my veins, calling to him in a way I've been trying to quell for months. I'd been in denial, but after our brief time apart the way I respond to him is undeniable. I spin around, and in the dim lights of the club I finally come face to face with him.

My hands are trapped between us as I turn, and I instinctively brace myself on his chest. His shirt is soft and thin beneath my fingers, the body underneath hard and still too thin. The smell of him encapsulates me, making my head swim as every moment in Brockington comes racing back to me. I clutch at the fabric without thinking, and my knees going weak as I look into his eyes. They're the same brilliant silver I remember from our sessions, moving like quicksilver now in the dancing lights surrounding us. His eyes are hard and questioning, almost accusing as they stare into mine.

"I said," he growls again over the music, sliding his hands up my arms to grasp my wrists, "What the _bloody fuck_ are you doing here?"

I shake my head ever so slightly, forcing my brain to recover from the shock. He's here, standing right in front of me. And I was so busy trying to prepare myself for his arrival that I never saw him coming. I force myself to take a deep breath, reminding myself of just what I'm supposed to be doing tonight. Convincing Malfoy that I'm ripe for the picking, that I'm the link inside the NCA they've been looking for. That I'm his. But it's impossible to think like that right now, not when I'm overcome with relief to see him.

"I should be asking you the same question," I yell, glancing around us to see if anyone is listening. "Should you really be out in public like this?"

Malfoy gives me a devious smile, tightening his hold on my wrists and pulling upward, bringing my hands to cup around his neck. His hair is soft beneath my fingers, and I have to resist the urge to card them through his tresses. He brings his hands back down to my hips, pulling my pelvis against his again and swirling them around, bringing us back into the beat of the music. I suddenly realize we'd been standing still, staring at each other amid a sea of writhing bodies. He brings his lips to my ear, his breath tickling the small hairs there again as he asks, "Miss me, Granger?"

"I've been worried about you," I hiss, suddenly realizing as I say them how terrifyingly true the words are. I _have_ been worried about him since McGonagall told me he'd broken out of Brockington. I'm worried he'll be caught, that he'll end up back in that horrible place with people who did horrible things to him. And it would have been worse than the first time. Because he's embarrassed them, and they'd want to take revenge.

"Worried I'd stay missing?" he asks with a snarl, gripping me tightly enough it's just this side of painful. "Worried they'd fail to stick me back in that godforsaken place again?"

I shake my head, rising up on my tiptoes to get my own lips to his ears as I say vehemently, " _No._ Worried something would happen to you, that you'd be hurt if they tried to catch you again."

"You haven't answered my question," he presses, his movements growing slower. "Why are you here?"

And just like that, it's time to lie.

"I got these tickets in my mailbox this morning." The words almost come out too fast, I've practiced them a hundred times today. The lie feels thick like slime on my tongue, nearly making me gag. "I thought maybe they were from you. That you wanted me to come tonight."

"They weren't," he says flatly. I'm not sure if he believes me or not, but he goes on. "I'm surprised your _Fiance_ let you come to the Death Eater den without him trailing along behind. Or is he standing in the shadows, waiting to pounce when you have me unaware?"

This is what he thinks, but he was still willing to risk it to speak with me. He's either crazier than anyone thought, or he has an excellent escape plan. The mention of Ron burns, but I see my moment and I seize it. "Ron has no say in what I do anymore," I spit, taking a step away from Malfoy give myself a bit of space and looking away from him so the burning sting in my eyes doesn't show. "So no, this isn't a trap if that's what you're asking.

Malfoy takes a step back too, and reaches between us to put a finger beneath my chin. He presses upward, forcing me to look him in the eyes again. His silver eyes are dancing still, but this time they're dancing of their own accord, not just from the lights. "The man you proclaim to love is gone? What on earth did he do to deserve your wrath?"

My face must give me away, because suddenly his expression hardens.

"It wasn't your idea." It's not a question, but a statement. And as much as I know this is what he wanted, he doesn't seem happy about it right now.

"It seems some people at Brockington believe I may have assisted you in your escape." I glance toward Ginny and Eugenia, who I can tell are studiously ignoring us. They've noticed I have a new friend, then, and they're giving us a bit of space. "Ron saw enough evidence to also believe it."

Malfoy shakes his head, pulling me up against him again. "I'd heard Brockington suspended you," he says softly into my ear, so low I almost can't hear him over the pounding of the music. "But I didn't know about the rest."

A burly man suddenly siddles up next to us, grabbing Malfoy by the shoulder. He jerks Malfoy away from me just a bit, and my hands fall away from his shoulders and back down to his chest. He puts his lips to Malfoy's ear, saying something with intensity and, if I'm reading his body language correctly, a bit of concern. Malfoy shrugs his shoulder at the man but nods, and when he turns back to me his eyes are blazing even brighter than before.

He pulls me up tight against him again, and my hands are pinned between us once more. The muscles beneath his shirt shift and I have to resist the urge to run my hands across the entire breadth of him just to feel more. He moves me to dance with him again, our bodies moving in sync together to the bass pounding through our bodies. Whatever the man must have wanted from Malfoy, he's paying the man no heed. He's here, with me, and my brain is still spinning while my heart is racing. I'm acutely aware the is the closest we've ever been, even on that last day. He tips his head to run his nose along my cheek before bringing his lips to my ear again.

"Finish this song with me," he says in a deep voice. "Then leave with me."

I pull back, startled. His eyes give me a forceful, demanding look as I feel myself shudder. I'd known this was a possibility tonight, that he'd try to spirit me away in one fashion or another. It was Zabini had planned for, what this entire mission was hinged on. That he would take me with him, rather than leaving me behind as a phantom in his past. But I'd hoped, really against all logic, that tonight would be a simple reunion and maybe some other night we would meet again. And I'm frightened. Not because I _have_ to go with him, but because I _want_ to. Something about him calls to some part of me that is hidden under years of self-coaching and ridicule. I've denied it for a long time, but this...this _mission_ McGonagall has given me somehow feels like permission to indulge that part of me I've refused to ever acknowledge. The part of me that seems to fit perfectly within the darkness Draco Malfoy himself exudes so exquisitely.

I brace myself, then nod and say, "Okay."

The word brings with it a rush of relief, and a whisper of freedom. And the look on Malfoy's face says it's not what he thought I was going to say. When he'd made a similar demand several weeks ago, I'd responded very differently. This almost feels like a redo, like I can retrace the moment things started to fall apart to that specific moment in that cold, metal room we'd built our tentative trust within. It's like a puzzle piece, the one you search and search for that you need to have to move on to the rest of it, has slid into place.

I can feel his body relax into me, his movements becoming more languid at my words. As if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders and he can relax finally. This is a very different man than the one I saw in Brockington. He's still Malfoy, but he's somewhat less restrained than he was in there, even during the times when it felt like he was being an open book with me. Like he's finally letting me see parts of him no one else ever has. Or maybe I'm just finally paying attention to him.

His hands move to my back, the tips of his fingers tracing my bare spine where my dress exposes the skin there. Up and down he runs them, tracing four vertebrae over and over again. My skin sings beneath his touch, my whole body almost vibrating. His scent is almost overwhelming this close, warm earth tones and a bit of incense mingle in the fabric of his shirt that my nose is almost pressed into. He's always been intriguing to me, but I'd never stood this close to him before until that fateful day at Brockington. And even then, I'd been too shocked to register anything besides my confusion and horror. But now, amid the music and the mist from the fog machines and the moving lights, I can let myself appreciate the specimen he really is.

The song ends and morphs into the next, and my heart leaps into my chest as he pulls away, lifting my chin to have me look him square in the eyes again. "Tell your friends whatever you need to get away. Answer the questions I'm sure they have as quickly as you can, then meet me in the back left corner by the last VIP booth in five minutes."

He runs his fingers along my spine one last time, and then as suddenly as he appeared he slips through the crowd and is gone.

* * *

.x.x.x.

* * *

I'm sorry you guys didnt get an update last week. My grandma got sick last week and passed away yesterday, so things have been a bit crazy. But this story brings me so much joy, and I know so many of you were looking forward to the reunion between Hermione and Draco. I combined some elements of the next chapter into this one to bring you a longer chapter for you to sink your teeth in to.

I'm glad so many of you enjoyed Draco's "gift" and even found it romantic. I'm willing to admit there's a dark part of me that adores the idea, just like Hermione! More dark romance is to come!


	12. Chapter 12

Breaking Heaven

Chapter 12

 _June 25th_

 _Session 12.5_

Barbaric. This is absolutely, totally barbaric. My skin crawls. And I fight the urge to vomit as I stare at the flesh sitting in the box, taunting me. I want to feel horrible for Lockhart, but a tiny, sick part of me is pleased. The part of me that still feels the bruise on my arm even though it's almost completely healed, hears his belittling voice in my ear even though I haven't seen him in days...it's justice.

But this is a sign of attachment from Malfoy I wasn't expecting, and it also implies he still has enough connections outside of Brockington to make this happen. He has power still, capabilities I thought him stripped of. He's put a certain level of trust in me that he shouldn't. It wouldn't take much for me to call Ron and tell him what happened. My building has enough security systems to see who came in to deliver the package and trace backward from there. It would expose one of his links, which could crumble a decent part of their organization. That fact he has so much confidence that I won't report this is unsettling to say the least.

I consider my options, and all the little pieces lay out logically before me. Option one, I call Ron and I tell him everything, which he'll relay to the NCA. I let them lock Malfoy up in the maximum security wing where they drug him into a stupor while Harry and Ron use the info to track down more of his friends. It's the option I should be jumping to without hesitation. And it's also the least appealing option.

Option two, I dispose of it and never speak of it again. I've always been a bit of an eye for an eye sort, believing the punishment should fit the crime. And while this is completely horrible, there's a beauty to it as well. Lockhart's hands have caused nothing but destruction. It seems fitting at least one should have been dealt with. And it's not lost on me how worrisome it should be that my sense of justice is so in line with a Death Eater's.

I've always considered myself to be level-headed, fair, and a champion for what's right. I never tolerate unfairness, which I think has lead me to be an excellent doctor. But there's a darker side of me that thrives on exacting revenge and making a lasting impression on those who have done wrong. A vicious sense of evenhandedness. It's why I knew I should never follow Harry and Ron into law enforcement. I'm far too intelligent and exacting for any amount of power to be in my hands when it comes to those who have done wrong in my eyes.

And it occurs to me that there is one conclusion that will determine my course of action. I need to go back to Brockington, and I need to speak with Malfoy. I need to find out what his mind set was behind this lovely little gift, and if this is revenge or just pure malice.

So much for that bottle of wine.

Brockington is quiet when I arrive, everyone is settled for the evening and the guards are moving about on their rounds sleepily. They don't really acknowledge me much, my white coat enough for them to brush me off as belonging wherever I please to be. I expect them to make more of a fuss about me being here, but instead I'm ignored almost entirely. So I make my way toward the high security area of the facility, completely unchallenged.

A guard is sitting in the control booth for the large metal doors that secure the wing Malfoy is kept in. He's unaware of my arrival, instead focusing on a small screen he's undoubtedly snuck in to make the nights go faster.

I clear my throat, and he jumps.

"Oh," he fumbles, quickly stashing the screen under the desk. "Sorry, uhm…how can I help you, Doctor?"

I give him a stern look and hand over my access card for him to scan. "I'm here to speak with my patient, Mr. Draco Malfoy."

The guard swipes my card through the reader in front of his screen and screws up his brow, confused. "You want to speak with a patient? It's nearly 9 at night."

"I'm afraid it's rather urgent," I say, taking back my access card from him with a snap. "It will only take a moment, but I'm afraid it must be tonight."

The guard hesitates, but radios in to another guard who confirms Malfoy is bunked but otherwise available. I'm buzzed through the first set of doors, a guard greets me on the other side. He performs the usual safety measures for staff entering high security areas, and after a few more check points he leads me to a small room especially for consultations with patients rather than full sessions. There is a small couch secured to the floor along with an armchair, but the room is otherwise bare.

I sit on the armchair and bounce my feet anxiously for about twenty minutes before a guard, the irritating M. Hargen again, presses the door open and shoves Malfoy inside. Malfoy looks irritated and confused, until his eyes fall on mine. His look changes to smug and delighted as he surveys me while Hargen attaches his restraints to one of the mechanisms coming from the underside couch.

"Fifteen minutes, Doc," Hargen says roughly, brushing his hair out of his eyes with a quick swipe of his hand as he stands up again. "Then he's gotta go back."

Malfoy watches him leave, then turns to me with a devilish grin. His hair is slightly damp, probably from an evening shower, and his day attire has been replaced with a matching set of grey sweatpants and sweatshirt that hang on him limply.

"Imagine my surprise when that bumbling buffoon of a man came to my room to announce the arrival of a doctor needing to speak with me, only to find it's the most irritating woman on the face of the earth. To what do I owe the pleasure, Doctor?"

I survey him for a moment, taking in the eager look in his eyes as he assesses me right back. He _knows_ why I'm here, the filthy bastard. He's trying to read me, to figure out what exactly my reaction is to his little present. I school my expression into something I hope is neutral, which makes him smile widely.

"I got your gift," I say flatly, watching the way his eyes flash in delight at my words. "It was...unexpected."

He gives me a broad smile, his beautiful white teeth in full display. "Seeing as it's you here to see me and not your delightful boyfriend, I'm guessing it was to your liking?"

"I'd like to understand your logic," I say, leaning back to rub my hands over my face. "Why in the world would you send something like that to your doctor? And there's no need holding back, this is a consultation room. No cameras or microphones," I add, noting the way he surveys the room quickly.

"Lockhart needed to be taught a lesson," Malfoy says with a snap, putting his hands on his knees as he stares me down. "I'm not the first patient he's fucked around with, and I doubt you're the first woman who's even been manhandled by him."

"And it's not as though Lockhart is the first man to try to handle me," I say with an answering snap, glaring at him. "So please don't say it was done on my account, because it's honestly a stretch."

He doesn't respond right away, instead he looks me over again with a curious look in his eyes. "You're not in as foul of a mood as I expected you would be, Doctor."

I consider this a moment, how my reaction isn't one he nor I expected. I'm horrified and worried about Lockhart's general well-being. But a properly earned punishment….

"Where is Lockhart?" I ask with a sigh, reaching up to run one hand across my face in exasperation. "Please tell me you didn't have him killed."

Malfoy laughs, and it's a barking, hoarse thing that catches me off guard. "I promise you, Doctor, Lockhart is at a hospital a few hours over getting the best care to be expected. When he returns, it will be with a tale of a horrible accident that resulted in the loss of his hand. He's been well cautioned to keep his mouth shut, along with the rest of the hospital staff. No one will be the wiser."

"And how am I to dispose of this monstrosity?" I demand, leaning forward. "It's not as though I can just throw it in the trash."

Malfoy rolls his eye and waves his hand dismissively. "It's already been taken care of. But I did tell them to leave behind a souvenir. To remember the whole thing by."

And just like that, Malfoy's erased the problem as efficiently as he's caused it. I'm equally terrified and pleased by how well this has all been resolved. Clearly Malfoy still has influence outside of his place. Enough to proficiently remove a man's hand, silence him and anyone else, and gain entrance to my flat.

My flat.

"Who in the hell," I hiss, leaning forward to glare at him, "do you think you are sending one of your goons into my home?"

He rolls his eyes again, a gesture I find humanizing and irritating all at once. It makes me want to strangle him, and the anger I feel surprises me. Anger is not something I let myself experience around my patients. Sympathy, understanding, support...sure. But anger? Never.

"I'm damned if I do, I'm damned if I don't," he says with a dramatic sigh. "Really, Doctor. It's so hard to please you women."

"Not sending disembodied hands is a start!"

"Are you going to report me, or not?" he asks with a snap, his eyes burning in to mine. He must see something there, because he leans back triumphantly. "Good. I'm surprised by you, Doctor. I imagined this going far more poorly. But you almost seem…agreeable to it."

Through my anger, I see Malfoy's face again after the ECT treatment. I hear Lockhart's patronizing voice, and the rumors of all the credit he's stolen from other doctors. How he tried to do it to me that day. And I see that stupid ring of his, glinting on his cold, bodiless hand in a bed of white rose petals.

And I smile.

That dark, hoarse laugh echoes across the room again. And he smiles back, wearing a look that's almost proud. "There is certainly more to you than meets the eye, Doctor Granger."

"Don't read too much into it, Malfoy," I sigh, standing from the hard armchair. "I can just appreciate the simple equitability."

"Tell yourself what you want," he snarls. "But you're not as bright and shiny as you want to pretend you are. You've told me yourself, something inside scares you. But it's only because you don't understand it. And you've spent your whole career trying to, and failed."

"You think I don't _know_ there's something dark in me?" I hiss, standing to pace the room. "It's not a matter of whether it exists. It's a matter of whether we act on it."

I'm so frustrated I'm not paying any attention to where I'm walking. And on one of my passes by he's able to reach out and snag me by the hand, then pull me hard enough to send me careening into his knees. He doesn't release my hand as I face him, my knees bumping his as we stand closer than we ever have before. And I know I should be scared. Now that he has a hold of me, there's nothing stopping him from incapacitating me just like he has his guards in the past. Perhaps bash my head in enough I won't remember the last few hours.

"Is this a game to you?" I ask, staring down into his eyes. They stare back, intent as they always are when we talk like this. When we argue.

"Everything is a game to me. You're just starting to learn the rules." His lips are smooth and beautiful as they stretch across his faultless teeth in a perfect, haunting smile. "And I'm just starting to learn you."

I shiver at his words, and the feel of his cool, firm hand in mine. Shock waves roll up my arm, and a wave of desire rolls over me as I look at him. To understand him. To see what it is he sees that makes the world so different from my own perspective. He so massively intrigues me that I nearly burn with the need to understand.

"And what is it you hope to win in this game?"

His eyes flash, and he gives my hand a firm squeeze as he says, "Everything."

* * *

When I return home that night I'm still mulling over the conversation, my head pounding. Hargen had come bumbling in after I'd managed to rip my hand away and stalk back to the chair. He'd eyed us both as he entered, reading the tension in the room before taking Malfoy away for the evening. He'd stood and walked out with Hargen without a single snide comment or look back at me. He'd allowed Hargen to shove him out of the room while I slumped to the couch, my energy sapped and heart weary.

True to his word, the box with the offending limb is gone from my counter. However, left in its place is the hideous gold ring with the L emblazoned on ostentatiously. Threaded through it is a long, delicate gold chain. He means for me to wear this, as a trophy. And a thrill rises through me as I consider sliding the chain over my head.

" _To remember the whole thing by."_

Instead, I wrap the chain up in my palm, fisting it tightly in my hand as I absorb the appreciation I feel at the reminder of the horrible deed. The ring is cold against my skin, cool as my blood rages. And I come to a firm conclusion. Despite the heavy implications of my decision, I elect to keep this whole matter to myself. But I waiver for a moment at message that comes buzzing in on my phone.

 _Done at work already, love. Want company after all?_

Growling, I shove the phone back in my purse. It's after ten, and I know if I just ignore Ron's message there's a good chance he'll assume I'm asleep and he won't come over. It will save me the painful rip in my heart at lying to him about why I don't want him to come over. That I just want my space, and I want to be alone this one night. He's been staying over more and more frequently lately, and I'm beginning to feel suffocated.

Stalking to my bedroom, I'm surprised to see one last surprise waiting for me. Laying on the bed is the rose from the box with the soft green ribbon wrapped around the stem, smack in the middle of my pillow. Crookshanks is staring at the offending item with a certain level of malice that has me racing forward to grab the flower hastily before he can decide to destroy it. He gives me a glower, as if to say, " _What sort of riffraff are you letting in this damn flat now, woman!"_ I'm sure the poorly socialized cat was well and truly horrified to have a strange person come blasting in to the flat, including our sacred bedroom.

Lifting the flower to my nose and taking another deep whiff, I am slammed by another wave of guilt. Sighing, I shuffle to the dresser drawer that holds my other deepest secret. Pulling out the box, I resist the urge to take a pull or two from the pipe nestled inside. Instead I drop inside the rose and ring before stashing it away in the back of the drawer and slamming it shut.

To my surprise, Ron comes barreling through the front door shortly after as I'm sitting on the couch eating my reheated takeout, finally indulging in my large glass of wine surrounded by candles in blissful silence.

"Thank god," he says when he sets eyes on me. "I was worried about you."

Turning, I take in his ruffled hair and flushed cheeks. He indeed does look worried, which surprises me.

"Why ever would you be worried?" I ask as I swallow the piece of broccoli. "I told you I was home."

"You didn't answer my text," he says, striding to my cupboard and pulling down his own wine glass. "And we've been seeing signs of the Death Eaters getting riled up lately. Apparently some of our guys have heard mentions of one of the locked up guys causing waves still even from his cell. When you didn't answer I decided to come check on you. It's not a secret you work for us."

"Sorry," I say, cringing at the worry I've caused him and the accuracy of his agent's intel, even if it's coming from Brockington not the prison Azkaban. "My phone must be in my purse."

He flicks open the flap of my purse, peering inside to see my phone indeed stashed inside. He nods and gives me a small smile, then grabs the bottle of wine and begins to pour himself a glass.

"So...you're staying?" I ask, cringing when I hear how annoyed I sound. It's not that I don't want to see him, it's just...after today, I need a bit of time to myself. I thank God I didn't decide to unwind with something more...herbal.

"Yup," he says, thankfully oblivious to my displeasure at the idea of his company. "I don't have to be at work until late tomorrow, so we can spend the morning together. Plus I don't like the idea of you being alone. I know the security here is supposed to be good, but I'm not so sure a few cameras and a locked door are good enough for someone who has the job and friends you do."

"Ron," I say with a sigh, setting down my glass on the table in front of me. I need to cut him off now before he suggests again that I move into the building he and Harry live in for the high security measures and armed doorman. Because if he starts up again, I'm going to end up yelling. "I have meetings tomorrow. Early. I can't hang around all morning with you."

"It's fine," he says with a smile, plopping himself down. "I'll just lock up on my way out in the morning. I can even try to make breakfast. Or not," he says hastily when I flinch. "I can... _order_ breakfast."

This makes me snort, and I scoot over to lean in to him as he settles in beside me. "Yes, I suppose that would be fine," I say agreeably, just wanting this conversation to end so we can let the flat fall back into silence again.

He chuckles, and I bury my nose in his chest to breathe in the smell of him. And as annoyed as I am to have my evening interrupted, I know it's something I will eventually have to accept. At some point, I'll have to take the plunge and live with him. At a certain point it will be the next, unavoidable step in our relationship. There will come a point when it will be inappropriate for us to not live together, unnatural. And this will be our every night. Snuggled on the couch as he regales me with stories of his day. At some point, the blissful silence will end.

And I tell myself I'm okay with the idea as Ron fills the silence with his loud, energetic retelling of the intel their undercover officers reported to them today, and how McGonagall will probably be calling me in soon for a consult on the information. Even if I can't stop thinking about the ring and rose in that secret box in my dresser for the rest of the night.

* * *

.x.x.x.

* * *

Hello my darlings. I missed you. Thank you for all your kind words after my grandmother passed away. It means a lot to me.

My updates for this story are slowing down a little. I've lost a little steam, although we're still SEVERAL chapters ahead of my progress. I have another story that I'll probably be posting soon, with more of a fantasy theme with a bit more steam off the bat :)

Reviews are so appreciated. I'd love to know what you guys think!


	13. Chapter 13

Breaking Heaven

Chapter 13

 _October 19th_

 _After Brockington_

"Oh my god," Eugenia says as she pounces onto my back to yell into my ear before I even have a chance to process what just happened...and what I agree to. "Holy hell, that was hot. Do you know him?"

Ginny's right behind her, looking intrigued but less excited than Eugenia. She seems concerned as she asks, "Are you alright?"

"Brilliant," I force myself to say, giving them a shy smile as they pull me closer to them. "That was quite a surprise."

"I'll say," Ginny says with a thoughtful expression on her face. "What a coincidence for you to run into each other here twice now. Especially with tonight being a VIP night."

I frown, her words failing to compute in my hazy mind. "What do you mean?"

Ginny frowns as well, giving me an odd look as she explains, "That guy. He's the one who danced with you last time we were here."

I shouldn't be surprised, although a bolt of shock zaps through me at her words to know I'd touched him, been with him without my knowledge. Zabini didn't say Malfoy had been the one to dance with me when he had seen me at The Boneyard, but maybe he didn't tell his friends that little piece of information. They would probably accuse him of being reckless, which he is.

Notwithstanding what I'm supposed to be doing for the NCA, the idea of him being caught makes my blood run cold. Malfoy was especially mistreated by the other staff of Brockington, and I have no desire to see him in there again. I've never seen another patient so abused as he'd been, never seen one incur the wrath of the staff quite like him. Picturing him back in those manacles, pinned down to a table makes me want to be sick. My only hope is Zabini's plan works and McGonagall keeps to her bargain.

"I had no idea," I say, my voice staggering just a little, and I hope they can't hear it over the noise surrounding us. "I never got the chance to see him the last time. We just danced."

"Who do you think he is?" Eugenia questions with a wide smile. "His shirt looks expensive, and those jeans are. I don't think he stumbled on these tickets as we did. He for sure bought his way in."

"I'll be sure to tell you when I find out," I reply sheepishly, pulling back a bit from my friends to see them better in the crowd. "I'm going to leave with him."

Eugenia lets out a hoot of laughter, but Ginny frowns at me, crossing her arms over her chest. "No," she shouts over the music. "Absolutely not."

"Oh Gin," Eugenia teases, throwing an arm over Ginny's shoulder. "Tone down the bossy mom act. She's a big girl, she can handle herself." She's outwardly joking with Ginny, but her expression very clearly is telling Ginny to lay off and stop hovering over me. I like Eugenia even more in this instant, and I'm again grateful she's the third person I selected for tonight.

Ginny doesn't acknowledge her but instead, she's staring me straight in the eyes as she crosses her arms and scolds me, "I'm not going to tell Ron about this. So if you're doing this to get back at him, don't expect me to be the one to break the news."

Her words sting, almost a slap on the face. I know she's worried about me, and desperately wants to see me and Ron back together again at some point, but I'm annoyed all the same. As much as I appreciate Ginny looking out for me, sometimes she forgets who she's talking to. And just because this behavior isn't my usual modus operandi, I'm not the floozy Harpie girls she has to rein in constantly. I'm intelligent, logical, and even-keeled. And I'm insulted she's implying I'm behaving like a petulant child.

"The key is in the usual place," I snap, the bite in my tone bitter enough to translate even over the din of the club. "I'll text at 3 am and 6 am so you know I'm okay. If I don't check-in, you have my permission to tell Harry I left here with someone so he can come looking. But otherwise, Ginny, mind your own damn business."

Her mouth drops a bit, her eyes narrowing. I can tell she's filtering through retorts, weighing each one in her head to judge the expected outcome. Ginny is fiercely protective of her family, which she considers me to be a member of. But I can also tell she's weighing in my ability to handle myself. I can tell when she chooses to take the path of least resistance when her shoulders drop and she begrudgingly pleas, "Be safe, okay?"

I give her a smile and a hug, being sure to remind her, "I always am," as I do so.

I can practically feel the time slipping away from me, knowing Malfoy is waiting somewhere across the room for me. So I give her one last squeeze, then turn and press myself through the crowd to exit the dance floor. I hear Eugenia yell out something that sounds vaguely like, "Get it, girl," but I can't tell for sure over the screaming music.

Once I'm through the crush of bodies I scan the room, locating the corner I think Malfoy was referring to. I don't see him at first and my steps falter as I get closer and there's still no sign of him. But then, like a phantom in the night, he steps from the shadows and I can see him better now than I could in such proximity before. Eugenia is right, the jeans he's wearing do look expensive. That soft, thin shirt I'd had between my fingers so many times tonight is black, and hugs every part of him as closely as I thought. I can't tell for certain in the writhing shadows, but I think I see a hint of tattoos on his arms. I'd never seen any signs of ink during his time in Brockington, but it suddenly occurs to me I've never seen his bare arms before. They're a little thin but still corded with muscle. His blonde hair is tousled tonight, and truly clean for the first time I can ever recall. His cheeks have already filled out some from his couple weeks of freedom, but his face is still pointed and angular with that irritating air of aristocracy. He holds out a hand as I reach him, and I slid my fingers into his without hesitation or question.

"My friend, Greg, tells me we have less time than I thought," he says, turning to pull me past the burly man who'd interrupted us on the dance floor and up the spiral staircase to one of the VIP lounges. "They identified undercover agents trying to get access in on a faulty name and dismissed them, but the NCA brought in the big guns now. You're friend and ex-Fiance are here now, demanding entrance at the front door to search for fugitives they think are being harbored here." I nearly trip on one of the steps at his words, but he doesn't turn around. Instead, he keeps pulling me along, around one more turn until we're in a plush room of velvet and red lamps and more loud music. "I'd intended, when I saw you, to bring you up here and show you what it means to be a person with influence, to show you what you could have with me, but that will have to wait until the dogs aren't breathing down our necks."

"Crabbe says they're getting pushy at the door, he's worried they're going to cause a scene. He thinks he needs to let them in." My head snaps around to the voice, and I come face to face with Blaise Zabini for the third time. He gives me a surprised smile, then turns to Malfoy and says, "I see you snagged yourself a pretty flower."

Malfoy scowls, pulling me closer. "This is Hermione Granger," he says, his tone indicating that the mere mention of my name should be enough for Zabini to grasp what's going on.

True to his word, Zabini's eyes light up with interest and what I know is a feigned surprise, turning back to give me a once over again as if he's never seen me before. "She's prettier than you said," he says curtly. "I thought you said the hair was unbearable."

My free hand snaps to my hair, patting the soft ringlet miracles Ginny made come true tonight. I turn to Malfoy, scowling at him as he chuckles. "She does look exquisite tonight, doesn't she?" His eyes are intense on mine, drinking me in. "I knew there was more to you under that white coat."

I'm not sure if I want to slap him or preen a little at his observation. If it weren't for the fact I know he isn't just referring to the fact my body is half on display in this dress, I would be more irritated. But all of this started with him in his patient garbs, rarely well showered, and me in my white coat, bare-faced and frizzy-haired. I know his reaction to seeing me out in the real world without my white coat to hide behind is similar to my own at seeing him clean and in real human clothes. Like I'm finally getting to see the real Draco Malfoy.

"The back is still clear," Zabini says, eyes glancing out the small balcony that allows the room's occupants to see out into the rest of the club. "It seems as if the golden boy and his pup are the only ones here tonight sniffing around trying to find you, and maybe snag someone else too if they can catch us in the act of something nefarious."

If Harry and Ron are here themselves, that means their agents' covers truly are blown. Any chance they've ever had to bring down Voldemort and his minions themselves is gone. Which means I'm the last hope we have if we don't want to have to restart from scratch, which will take years if not decades. I can feel a terrible tear ripping through my soul as if the light and dark are already warring. Glancing at Malfoy, I have to remind myself that this is all to save him. Zabini struck this deal to get himself and his friends out, including Malfoy. This is also _my_ last shot at helping him.

And I know now, standing here at the precipice of who I am and who I should be, that I would put my own life on the line for this man. This man I've seen tortured in a manner meant for healing, his mind shattered by what he's witnessed. Who's been led down a path by the people he trusts most to a place of despair. Darkness surrounds him, but I know enough of darkness myself to know the difference between the kind that comforts and the kind that kills. While I'm learning my darkness is the comfort of a warm blanket, I know Malfoy's to be a great, yawning pit of despair.

And what a curious thing, how his darkness calls to mine. It's something I intend to investigate further during our time together, to see if any of my training can unravel the draw we feel to one another despite the dangers we pose to each other. To understand why a man with a life so different from mine has such a complete hold on me.

His hand in mine squeezes, and I turn to look into his eyes. He's watching me intently as if he's trying to understand my mind by watching the shifting of my face. It used to disarm me, but the sharpness in his eyes is like a breath of fresh air when I've been surrounded by only the stale and stagnant sort. His intelligence rings through in his stare, reminding me of all our battles in that dim little room in Brockington. And my heart races at the thrill.

"Good," Malfoy says to Zabini, pulling me toward a wall. "Tell Theo to meet us at Gaunt Alley in 30. Come when you think it's safe. I think they can handle the rest of the night from here. Warn the girls," he adds. "I don't want anyone getting picked up tonight. I have plans I don't want to be interrupted by having to deal with that particular mess."

Zabini gives us a wicked smile, and I stiffen. "I'm sure you do," he says coyly. "I'll be sure the others know not to interrupt."

And suddenly my blood runs cold in my veins, freezing from my toes up to my heart. And it is all very clear to me how very royally screwed I am when I walk out that door with Draco Malfoy. I'm a fly flitting knowingly too close to the spider's web, and I'm about to become their next victim if I let myself fly too close. Glancing toward Malfoy and his cunning stare, I'm suddenly very aware of the spider that has me within his glorious reach.

Malfoy gives a little snarl at his friend, and says, "It's not like that, you nitwit. So stop leering and get us out of here."

His vehement protests against the idea of anything physical happening between us catches me off guard, and I have to take a moment to analyze exactly how I feel about this newest development. I'm starting to feel like I've read into this situation all wrong. In all likelihood, this is not the emotional reunion of two people who are completely called to each other. Is he leading me on to try to get me alone and dispose of me? Has this all been an elaborate ruse to eliminate an important tool in their enemy's ranks? Malfoy is well aware of the assistance I provide the NCA, and would also recognize the blow it would deal against them to lose an asset and a friend in one fell swoop. A wave of fear suddenly race up my spine and I have to force myself to hold still as I survey my options for escape. I glance toward the balcony, trying to decide if I can make a break for it over the railing and if I can handle the jump in these heels without breaking or killing myself. But Malfoy spins me into him to wrap his arm around me as Zabini walks away toward the back of the room, his eyes blazing.

"Don't take offense," he says, reading the annoyed expression on my face perfectly. "While I'd love nothing more than to slip between those delicious thighs you're hiding under that dress, I don't need everyone knowing you're here yet. I need time to figure out this whole bloody mess without getting us both killed."

I'm unsettled by the fact that this statement reassures me in no small way. Confused, I raise an eyebrow and ask, "What do you mean?"

Huffing, he releases his hold around me to grab my shoulders, turning me to face him straight on rather than tucked into his side so he can see me fully. "I know everything is a mess for you right now, and it's all bloody well trashed for me, but I need you to make a decision right now. I know there was something between us in that place, something big. Something permanent. I know you felt it too. It's why you came tonight, knowing what this godforsaken place is, to find me. But if you come with me, you can't go running back to your Fiance when things get wild. And they will get worse before they get better. I have shit to do, things to prove before they'll leave me be in peace. If you come with me, you're coming with me for real. No turning back, no second chances."

His words make my head feel heavy, and I have to fight the sudden weakness in my knees. What he's asking...demanding. If I go with him, this is it. I'm in this mess, and I'm in deep. I wonder for a moment if this had happened organically without the meddling of the NCA if I would go with him. If I would leave behind my simple little life and jump into the life of a Death Eater's...what? Friend? Girlfriend? _Woman_?

And suddenly, as I look at the expression look on his face...something shifts in me. He's no longer Malfoy, the patient at Brockington who broke down every piece of who I am, who shone a mirror in the darkest places of my soul and terrified me. He's Draco, a man who sees me for what I am and doesn't try to change it, doesn't try to turn the darkness into light. He embraces it, encourages it, lets me break free of the chains I didn't even know were holding me back. He sees the wicked part of me, the part of me that's vindictive and cruel and sarcastic and hard. And he wants it.

"You're ready for your Ride or Die," I say, recalling that conversation in Brockington that felt like so many other things were happening below the surface.

Draco shakes his head at the thoughts he must be able to see in my expressions. "Look, I'm not telling you that when you walk out of here you're going to be a Death Eater. No one's going to let you see anything important, so if you decide to walk away at some point you can do that. I'm not going to let _anything_ happen to you. But this decision you're making...I just want you to understand what it means."

"I have friends," I gasp out, my heart nearly racing out of my chest. "They'll notice that something's happened. The girls I came with are going to want an explanation for me suddenly running off tonight."

"We'll handle it," he says, tightening his grip on my shoulders. "We'll take it one day at a time. But, Hermione, we're running out of time. If you're going to make a decision, you need to do it now."

 _Hermione._ It's the second time now he's used my given name tonight, something he did only a few times at the end of our time in Brockington. My heart races faster, taking flight in my chest. I feel like I'm going to faint with the rush of everything pressing down around me. I lift my hands and grip his forearms tightly to steady myself.

' _McGonagall wants you to do this,'_ I tell myself, trying to force my breathing to even. ' _This is what you're supposed to be doing. Ron let you go so you could do this.'_

' _And you want it, too,'_ that small, dark voice inside me slithers, worming through my mind like a thick fog. ' _You would go with him, even without their plotting against him. Because he intrigues you, and you can't resist a puzzle. And as much as you don't want to admit it, Ron set you_ _ **free.'**_

"Okay," I say, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. "I'm with you."

Draco's face is full of triumph, and a disquieting part of me is so relieved to have pleased him. This man is still an enigma to me after all this time, but I'm finally beginning to see how he works. His life, as he told me before, is based on loyalty. Gangs are based on blind loyalty of the most basic degree. Ride or die. And my trust in him, despite everything, is the thing that matters to him the most.

Without a word, suddenly he's bending toward me. His hands slide up my shoulders to my neck, and then my jaw. He cups my face roughly between his hands and brings me across the remaining distance to meet him. And then his lips are on mine. They're soft and gentle at first. Almost as if they're thanking me for the privilege, trying so hard to be gentle. Like a wolf trying to pretend it's a lamb. But then he growls above me and shudders, his hands moving back to my neck to slide up into my hair. My hands travel up his arms to his neck, where I finally permit myself to card my hands through his hair like I've wanted to so many times before. He turns my head slightly in his grip, deepening the kiss from one of new beginnings to one of fierce desire. His tongue coaxes against my lips gently, but he doesn't delve in like I expect him to. He plays it languidly, letting the fire build slowly between us. And it burns as it plays with my heart, my whole body beginning to vibrate with the energy he pours into our kiss.

"I hate to interrupt this heartfelt moment," Zabini says sarcastically after clearing his throat loudly. "But we're ready."

Draco doesn't immediately pull his lips from mine, and I'm not about to be the first to do it. He tastes like danger and darkness, and all things wicked. I want to sink into him, relish him in the way I couldn't before. This is the way I always expected our first kiss to be, whenever my wandering mind got away from me after those last sessions in that icy room. Instead, it had been full of shock and fear and desperation. But our second kiss...it's full of promises.

Draco finally pulls away a moment later, and even in the dim red light of the room, I can see his pupils are enlarged and his breathing is fast. I know I mirror him as I give his hair a little teasing tug, and he gives a low laugh in response. "As much as I disapprove of the interruption, we have to go now or this entire adventure is over before it started."

Turning, I see Zabini standing next to one of the panels of fabric draping the wall. He's holding it aside, and I can see a small section of the wall has been moved aside to expose a small hallway leading into darkness. I roll my eyes at the total and complete cliche of having a secret escape route built into their nightclub. I turn and glance toward the open dance area, hoping to get one last look at Ginny. I find her easily with her blazing red hair shining like a beacon. She's on the edge of the dance floor standing and talking, but she's not with just Eugenia anymore. My knees suddenly give out on me when I see Harry and Ron standing next to her, looking agitated. Ron, in particular, seems upset, shuffling from foot to foot as he waves his arms about and glances around every so often.

Malfoy catches me around the waist from behind, holding me upright. I can feel the concern and anxiety washing off of him, but he stands and waits for me to right myself. He's wasting valuable time for getting away, ensuring his freedom, by making sure I'm alright.

"You weren't joking," I manage, turning in his arms to face him again. "They're here looking for you. And now they know I was here, and that I left with someone. They'll know you were here."

He nods, and he looks concerned. "It will make this difficult."

I give myself a little shake and glance over his shoulder to see Zabini looking nervous, glancing from us to the newly revealed escape route repeatedly. "Draco," he shouts, "It's now or never."

"Ready?" Draco asks, pulling me up tightly against him. "This is the moment everything changes."

Everything changes. Indeed, never would I have thought I'd choose to walk away from Ron with a man I've known less than a year. A criminal. But the way he looks at me, and the way I feel when I'm with him...yes, everything changes. And very little of it has to do with what my friends have sent me here to do.

Ride or die indeed.

I pull myself up, forcing myself to give him a small smile. "I'm ready."

He gives me a small, relieved smile of his own before bending to give me another quick, searing kiss. He pulls back almost as suddenly as he'd leaned in, and then he takes my hand to pull me toward Zabini and the waiting darkness beyond this room. Zabini gives Draco a small thump on the back as we pass. "The car is waiting downstairs. I told them you have company."

Draco nods to Zabini as we enter the darkness. "Tell them we'll be there in five."

And with that, the door slides closed behind us and we're alone in the dark, the sounds of the club are muffled with a sense of finality that makes me shiver. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust, but I can make out a small globe of light up ahead. Draco continues to hold my hand, our fingers laced as I hold on to him with all my might as he pulls us along. We walk in silence, the only sound around us the sound of my heels clicking on the cement floor and the fading music of The Boneyard behind us. Every so often he squeezes my hand as if trying to reassure himself I'm still walking along behind him. Like Orpheus and Eurydice, he's walking on faith I'm there at his back. I squeeze him back each time to communicate that I am, and I'm not going anywhere. Not that I could, at this point, if I wanted to.

The globe ahead of us grows brighter and larger until I can tell it's a small light positioned over a set of spiral stairs leading down into more darkness. We move down them quickly, my heels clacking even louder with each step we descend. The sound is deafening in my ears, even after leaving the club's violent cacophony of discord. Every sense seems to be operating on high alert, adrenaline singing in my veins. Draco's hand in mine is firing lines of electricity up my arm and straight to my chest, keeping me heated despite the cool October air that seems to creep in the farther we descend. I'm suddenly very cognizant of my decision not to try to drag a coat with me tonight, and I pray we don't have to spend long outdoors wherever we're going. Considering Draco isn't wearing a jacket either, I'm hoping that's the case.

We reach the bottom of the stairs quickly, and Draco leads us down a long hallway of continuing blackness. After another minute of hurried walking, we come to a small room where there's a bright green door waiting with a small red light shining above it.

"Shit," Draco says, eyeing the light. "Fuck, that's not good."

Then, suddenly, the light flashes green. Draco yelps and jumps slightly, leaning forward quickly to knock on the door four times in a coordinated rhythm. A different pattern comes back, and in response, Draco grabs the doorknob and turns but doesn't press it open. He just holds the knob that way, until a click comes from the other side and the door swings open so the handle is wrenched from his fingertips.

"Let's go," Draco says, pulling me again by the hand he's never let go of. I let him guide me, and we cross the threshold into the next part of my life.

* * *

.x.x.x.

* * *

I've MISSED you all! Life has just been too stupid lately. I appreciate all of your kind words after my grandmother passed, and all of the positive things you've had to say about this story. I have no excuse for the delay in posts as many of this story's chapters are already written, other than that time got away from me. I hope you all enjoyed this addition to my dark little story.

I have another one in the works as well for a more fantasy-driven. My plan is to get it fully written before publishing, but I may get too excited and post sooner rather than later. Who knows?


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